


Honey Pick A Blossom

by LaurytheLatrator



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blow Jobs, Drunken Kissing, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Face-Fucking, Fantasizing, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, Jealousy, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Pining, Pining Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Pining Jaskier | Dandelion, Post-Season/Series 01, Slow Burn, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Supportive Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Unrequited Love, Yennefer is a bro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:19:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22804699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaurytheLatrator/pseuds/LaurytheLatrator
Summary: He remarked calmly, “You should come.”A choked cough came from Jaskier’s direction. “I beg your very most pardon?”.Somehow Geralt and Jaskier haven't had sex.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 124
Kudos: 1186





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These scenes take place between Episode 4 and 5, before the Djinn and Yennefer.
> 
> TW: sexual acts during altered states, specifically a lust potion.

As could reliably be counted on for all things Jaskier, Geralt heard him before he saw him.

He was leading Roach to a river bank, intending to let her drink and fill his own waterskin, following the smell and sound of fresh running water. The babbling of the river mixed with a high lilting singing, a clever mix between cheerful and wistful.

> “She said, ‘Boy, you know you’ve caught my eye,  
>  And I know you’re sweeter than apple pie,  
>  But I like my men completely wild,  
>  So baby, keep on trying…’”

Another one of Jaskier’s songs about love thwarted or gone awry. While he traveled with Geralt his songs tended to be epics and adventures, but whenever they were apart he wrote ballads, presumably for the women he kept company with.

Geralt broke through the tree line and hit the sandy river bank. It was a wide, shallow river, more of a brook now he saw it. The water was clear down to its pebbled bed. Roach nickered joyfully and trotted ahead of him to sink her muzzle in its cool relief.

Some distance downriver and on the opposite bank sat Jaskier on a rock, dangling his bare feet and a fishing line in the water. It took him a moment to locate the new sound, his head swiveling as human ears strained, but finally Jaskier’s gaze fell on Geralt and Roach. Instantly a grin overtook his features and he lifted his hand in greeting.

“Geralt!” He called, as if the witcher hadn’t noticed him. Sedately Geralt blinked back at him, then moved to the saddlebags.

As he removed the near empty waterskin, he heard splashing from Jaskier’s position. Half-expecting to find the bard had fallen in, he glanced back. But no, Jaskier was standing on the bank, winding his fishing line and fussing with his own things. They worked in companionable silence for that moment, and Geralt knew the respite was only due to distance. Sure enough, the babble started up as Jaskier walked along the opposite bank.

“Fancy finding you here, eh? How long has it been this time? It would’ve been before winter, wouldn’t it?” Yes, Geralt could remember their parting clearly. They’d split off as the first snow loomed on the horizon, Geralt for Kaer Morhen and Jaskier to Oxenfurt. Each could bunker down among their own people. “Not so long then,” Jaskier concluded merrily. “You wouldn’t be making your way East, would you?” 

Geralt grunted; he was coming from the North where he’d finished up a contract and been shown his way out of town with a stoning. This close to Blavikin that was more common than not. East was as good a direction as any, and humans were less likely to throw things at him in the bard’s company.

Taking his hum for assent, Jaskier said, “Excellent! Have you spent much time in Kaedwen? I know your witcher fortress is up in the Blue Mountains, but of course I mean down in the human settlements. I was thinking of making my way to Ard Carriagh and seeing if the royalty would like a performance. My work hasn’t made it there as much as other regions; cold forest is no place for troubadours.”

Then why go, Geralt thinks fleetingly. But he’s always been puzzled by Jaskier’s insistence on traveling; he’d be safer and better known if he stayed in one place, like Oxenfurt, and let the audience travel to him.

Across the river, Jaskier seemed to be struggling with how exactly to cross it. “Oh sod it,” He muttered, not lost on witcher ears, and bent to roll up his trouser legs. Like all of Jaskier’s attire, the trousers were tight, and so resisted his efforts. He swore again. Geralt smirked to himself, busying his hands with the waterskin. A short burst of _Igni_ would kill anything inside; as Vesemir said, witchers may be immune to diseases, but a parasite was still a bugger to be rid off.

Splashing told him Jaskier had braved the water. Looking up, he saw the bard wading in, holding aloft his lute and his pack. Geralt merely waited and watched his progress. There were enough rocks at the bottom that Jaskier could, with careful steps, navigate a route that kept his waist dry.

That is, until he was nearly in arm’s reach, and then the stepping stone slipped beneath his foot. Idiot, Geralt thought, but his lightning fast reflexes already had him bounding forward. His hands spanned Jaskier’s ribs as the bard wobbled in his hold. He looked at Geralt with robin’s egg eyes. The moment held suspended like a fly in amber.

“Thanks,” said Jaskier with a slight shake in his chipper voice, “I hadn’t fancied fishing my lute out from downstream. Nor replacing this doublet, the merchant’s retired, you see. He’d been my second favorite too.”

“Idiot,” Geralt grunted aloud this time. He released the bard’s body (thin, too thin) and grimaced down at his wet boots. “Watch your step,” He cautioned as he stomped back to Roach. While he packed the waterskin, Jaskier crossed the last of the distance, his trousers dripping steadily.

“Have I told you of my favorite tailor in Novigrad?” Jaskier asked as he fiddled with donning his shoes. “Well technically he lives outside Novigrad, as he’s an elf, but there is no one, man, elf, or dwarf, with a better eye for color than he.”

Geralt let Jaskier’s prattle melt into a sonorous stream, tuning out the words and just listening to the tone. It felt like listening to Vesemir humming as he worked a grindstone, like Roach’s soft huffs of breathing in the nighttime, or even a long-forgotten lullabye of a red-haired witch. 

* * *

The head of the endrega queen hit the bartop with a squelch. The innkeeper recoiled, either from the decapitated head, the stench, or Geralt himself. The endrega had dragged him into their nest and he was covered in mud and blood. Hardly new for him.

“I’ll take my coin,” He growled at the innkeeper, “And a bath.”

Hurriedly, the innkeeper groped under the bar, and produced a small sack of coin. Geralt weighed it in his hand and deemed it close enough; he’d count it after bathing. With a grunt of thanks, the witcher left the innkeeper with his prize, and proceeded to his room.

He’d booked the room upon taking the contract last night, suspecting he’d need a rest after dealing with an endrega infestation. As he trod up the stairs, the subtle sounds of panting, moaning, and flesh hitting flesh drifted to his sensitive ears. Geralt paused at the landing and beat his head against the wall. He couldn’t be this unlucky, surely.

And yet, he turned the key to his room and opened the door to see Jaskier bent over a chair, getting ploughed by a fair-haired young man with the build of a farmer. His partner pumped his hips unrelentingly quick into Jaskier, whose face was flushed deep pink, eyes screwed up tightly.

Geralt shut his own eyes against the sight and announced himself by saying, “Get out.” He heard the man stumble, the chair make an obscene screech, and the unmistakable sound of Jaskier whining.

“Bloody—Geralt!” Jaskier panted, his voice high and reedy. “Fuck, I thought—”

“Clearly you didn’t,” Geralt retorted, opening his eyes. The man had retreated a few steps back from Jaskier, his hands up placatingly, his cock hanging free.

“Master Witcher,” said the man with some panic, “I didn’t mean to, er, the bard came on to me, I swear it.”

“Oh shut up,stop your sniveling,” Jaskier snapped at his lover. He was struggling to do up his trousers with shaking hands.

Geralt jerked his head to the hallway. “Get out. I have a bath coming.” Wisely, the fairhaired man tucked himself in and scurried out. Closing the door behind him, Geralt looked to his bard. Jaskier was shifting from foot to foot, his cock a visible line in his tight trousers, buttoned haphazardly. He drew a trembling hand through his hair.

“Thought you wouldn’t be back until later tonight,” Jaskier belatedly explained. “And, frankly, I thought Thom would’ve finished sooner, he sort of went on and on…”

Geralt shook his head. “You can get out too, or shut up.”

Mortification worked where idle threats had never before. Jaskier tapped his mouth in a silent promise. Satisfied, Geralt finally moved to the bed. He doffed his armor, his swords, and was removing his boots when there was a knock on the door. Thankfully, Jaskier went to let them in, a young woman laden down with water jugs and another bearing the wooden bath basin. They worked quickly, and soon a light steam filled the room.

“Thank you ever so,” Jaskier said, tipping the young women two coppers. One glanced down his front, blushed, and elbowed her companion out the door. “Fuck,” swore Jaskier.

“You’re still hard,” Geralt observed, shucking his sweat stained shirt.

The bard made a frustrated noise in his throat. “Witcher perception excels once again.”

In a single movement, Geralt lowered his trousers and pants. When he stood straight, fully nude, it was to see Jaskier tensely turned away. Fair enough. He strode to the tub and stepped in. Could be hotter, but then he always wanted it blistering. Gratefully he sank into the water, bowing and dunking his head and washing out his hair. When he came back up, his face dripping, he remarked calmly, “You should come.”

A choked cough came from Jaskier’s direction. “I beg your very most pardon?”

“Take yourself in hand,” suggested Geralt, feeling indulgent. “You have until I get out of the bath. Or go find your lover, or a new one, just don’t bring them back here.”

“I… you’re actually suggesting I… and  you won’t kill me?” Geralt didn’t deign that with a response, other than a baleful glance. “Right,” said Jaskier shakily, and Geralt looked away as his hands dropped.

He focused on rinsing himself of sweat, blood, and dirt. The sound of Jaskier pleasuring himself filtered in and out of his awareness as he washed. The scent of sex was vaguely pleasant, overtaking the odor of that farmer. The water turned murky and Geralt lingered in the warmth as he rung out his hair, carefully keeping Jaskier in his peripheral vision.

Jaskier was hunched over the chamber pot, one hand working himself furiously, the other pressed to his mouth. What noises was he stifling? Geralt had long figured Jaskier would be a mouthy lover. What would he be saying if he allowed it? His trousers were sagging, revealing the top of his round arse. Was he sore from his earlier fucking? Would he be red and stretched still? The man hadn’t been large, not by Geralt’s standards, but had he prepped the bard enough for his average cock? What was he imagining, Geralt wondered, dipping his hand beneath the water line to squeeze his own interested cock. His fair-haired farmer lad? Probably, most likely he was picturing how their encounter would have ended without Geralt’s intervention. Maybe that would teach the bard to buy his own room.

Jaskier made a muffled, high-pitched sound. Geralt gripped the base of his cock and willed himself to calm. Finally, he stood, the water audibly sloughing off his body. He reached for a cloth and heard Jaskier make another of those lovely whines. There came the telltale sound of his release hitting metal. Good, he thought, drying himself thoroughly. Hopefully the bard’s climax would make the night pass peacefully.

Wordlessly Geralt redressed in a mostly-clean shirt and loose trousers. Jaskier recovered his breath in the corner. Picking up his bag of coin, Geralt sat on the bed and started to count.

“Fuck,” Jaskier whimpered into the quiet, “Thank you, thank you, I so needed that.”

Didn’t have anything to do with me, Geralt thought. “Hm,” he grunted.

* * *

They were camped between two villages, off the main road. Geralt pushed a fallen tree and started a fire in the newly made clearing. The ground was springy with moss beneath their bedrolls. As the night wore on, Geralt meditated as Jaskier tossed and turned beside him. The bard’s rest was obviously fitful, and it was irritating Geralt.

“What’s the problem?” He snapped at last, startling Jaskier into sitting up.

“What?” He squawked defensively. “Nothing!Why should there be a problem?”

But Geralt scented the air: rising smoke, the familiar stench of Roach, and lust coming off of Jaskier’s red cheeks.

“You’re horny,” he grunted, annoyed, “Just get off and go to sleep.”

Jaskier looked at Geralt like he was thick. “I’m not about to go wander off into the woods for a wank. I do actually listen when you talk about wolves and such dangers. I can fall asleep,  it is merely... taking some time.”

Geralt shrugged. He’d assumed Jaskier had done just that numerous times during their camping together. The man went off to _relieve_ himself more than a small-bladdered maiden, and it had never bothered him before. So long as Jaskier was within shouting distance.

He leaned back against the fallen tree and let his knees fall subtly apart. Arousal was a pleasant smell most of the time, and Geralt became acutely aware of the rush of blood under his skin, in his cheeks, his cock. Idly he wondered if Jaskier would accept an offer of help, his hand perhaps. He knew the bard took men to bed. Though he had never propositioned Geralt in their… what was it now… ten years of sporadic traveling together. Could be the bard didn’t want to fuck him, for whatever reason. Geralt could respect that.

Still.

He unlaced his own breeches and said, “If you won’t, I will.” Reaching in, he gave his half-hard cock a firm squeeze, and breathed out through his nose.

Jaskier bolted up from where he’d been trying to sleep, eyes wide and wide-awake, as they darted from Geralt’s face to the front of his trousers. “You what?” He squeaked out.

Geralt rolled his eyes. “You’re not the only one with a cock here, bard.”

“You’re… but I’m right here!” Geralt raised one brow, still palming at himself, as if to say, _who’s fault is that?_ Jaskier, growing more hysterical, said, “You can’t just have a wank while I’m sitting next to you, you, you… pervert!”

Sighing, Geralt removed his hand from within his trousers, and grumbled, “Human hang ups.”

“What?!” Jaskier sputtered, staring at him. “You can’t mean… what, is Kaer Morhen just filled with witchers jerking themselves in public?”

“No,” Geralt growled, scowling because he didn’t know how to explain.

At one point, after they’d undergone and survived the mutations, Vesemir had a Talk with the pubescent witchers. He’d informed them of their infertility and explained what this meant for their futures. No courting, no wives, no long-term family commitments would stray them from the Path. Sex should be viewed like a contract (between willing partners, he stressed), and all it could be was fleeting pleasure. There was no shame in going to a brothel where this was well understood.

Of course, then young witchers were turned out into the world and discovered how confusing human mating really was. Observing the elaborate rituals and mores surrounding sex could make a witcher’s head spin. Truly they managed to take a biological urge and complicate it to the point of removing all joy.

“The road,” He said, privately meaning The Path, “Is hard. We take pleasure when we can.”

Jaskier scoffed and mimicked his low growl, “ _The road is hard._ Well be that as it may, you definitely can’t take your pleasure right next to me everytime the _road_ gets _hard_.”

“Fine,” Geralt snapped, standing in one smooth movement. He circled the fire and sat off to the side on the fallen tree’s stump. Defiantly he pulled his cock out. There came a squeak from across the fire, but Geralt didn’t bother looking, and he heard no more protests.

His hardness had flagged a bit in their argument, but as his frustration with Jaskier grew, he pictured the bard’s face flushed with embarrassment, and the thought of rosy cheeks and bright blue eyes flooded him with arousal. No, it wasn’t right to fantasize about his companion, but in his ire he didn’t care. The scent of Jaskier’s pheromones still lingered around the fire. Geralt pretended the smell was fresh and mingling with his own musky lust, that Jaskier found the sound of Geralt’s hand slicking over flesh erotic, that he was unbearably turned on and stewing in his bedroll. Good, he thought spitefully, let him long for my cock, for even a glimpse of it. He won’t get it. Let his fingers itch to wrap around it, squeeze it, stroke it. Let him wish for the taste of it lying heavy on his tongue. And as he pictured Jaskier, mouth agape and waiting, he imagined teasing him with the head, never letting his lips close around it, heard Jaskier whine as lovely as he did back in the inn, and Geralt came into his fist.

Nearly as soon as the rush of ecstasy left him, shame flooded in its stead. He could hear the heavy breathing of his companion that signalled sleep. What he’d done was petty and accomplished nothing, and worse it felt animal and base. If Vesemir could see him now, using his cock vindictively, he’d rightly take up arms and beat him into the dust.

Geralt stayed on the stump brooding until the sounds of the night insects faded into birdsong. At least Jaskier slept peacefully.

* * *

At a nameday party in Ard Carriagh, Geralt sensed a change in the air.

He’s been leaning against the wall observing the festivities; Kaedwen was not as prosperous a kingdom as Cintra but they appeared to share the same love of drinking and dancing. Though there were no jilted lovers or irate husbands to fend off, Geralt knew that had Jaskier come alone, there would be. So, he loomed from the sidelines, while the bard danced merrily around the palace choir accompanying him.

Except Geralt couldn’t see Jaskier on the dancefloor and he realized he’d missed Jaskier’s song ending. He cast his gaze around, lighting on the courtiers and servants, and not finding the brightly colored bard, he pushed off the wall. A strange scent niggled at his awareness, mingled with all the humans, and he struggled to place it. Saccharine and demonic in nature. Geralt set out to follow the scent and he pursued it across the ballroom and to a servant’s passage. The smell was stronger, and now he could sense others among it: a stink of fear-sweat and lavender.

“Jaskier,” He said in realization and quickened his steps. He followed the passage near to the kitchens and stopped short in front of a door. Faintly he heard heaving breaths from inside, and Geralt knocked.

Jaskier’s voice, shaking slightly, called out, “Occupied! Please move along!”

“Jaskier, it’s me,” Geralt told him, “Open the door.”

“Geralt?” Jaskier asked, hope wavering in his voice. “For the love of Melitele, thank goodness it’s you! Geralt, I think I’ve been cursed.”

Geralt tried the knob, but found it stuck. “Open the door, Jaskier.”

“Can’t do that, sorry! Believe me I wish I could, I really, _really_ wish I could.”

Sniffing, Geralt wrinkled his nose at the strength of the sickly sweet scent. “Is there someone in there with you?”

“No, and I intend to keep it that way.”

“You smell…” He struggled with words. “Wrong.”

“Charming, Geralt, truly. I mean it, I think I’ve been cursed.” Abandoning the doorknob, Geralt stepped back, ready to bust it down. Before he could, Jaskier continued, “An admirer gave me a tankard of ale, and I drank some like a naive fool, and suddenly my body was on fire.” Geralt had an image of Jaskier spontaneously combusting on the dancefloor. “Not literally,” Jaskier said, as if he could tell, “More like… the Countess de Stael decided to do a fan dance behind my eyes, do you understand?”

“Hm,” Geralt grunted. “Succubus venom.”

“Nobody bit me,” Jaskier protested, “I just—”

“Charlatans in this region often use succubus venom to mix love potions,” He found himself explaining. “Obviously there’s no such thing, but it does make people want to fuck.”

“Well yes, I’ve figured that part out,” Jaskier sniped back. “How do we make it stop?”

Grinding his teeth, Geralt replied, “How do you think?”

“I tried wanking, it hasn’t helped.”

Alright, Geralt thought, Jaskier was dedicated to being dim. With one smooth move, he kicked just below the knob, and the door swung open. Jaskier yelped, his wrists flailing, as he scrambled backwards. Geralt looked him over; his doublet was off, his shirt hung open, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and his trousers were at his ankles. His cock was flushed red and beading at the head as it curved up invitingly. Hurriedly, Jaskier covered himself with his hands.

“Bloody—What the fuck was that for? Have you gone completely ‘round the bend?” His embarrassed sputtering was almost encouraging; he had his mind, no doubt due to taking himself in hand to ease the symptoms. The room he’d decided to retreat to was a cupboard, with excess cooking supplies hanging above them, not somewhere the servants would need access to. Geralt closed the door firmly.

“I’m going to suck you off,” He announced, pleased it came out flat, matter-of-fact.

Jaskier gaped at him. “You’ll what? I’m sorry, please say that again.” His face screwed up as if in pain and he said, “Actually don’t, use different words please, anything but…”

“Suck,” Geralt said again, and watched as a full body shudder overtook the bard. “Succubi require you to lie with someone else. In this diluted form, you still need the ‘someone else’, but the position can be lax.”

Jaskier stared, blinking his bright blue eyes filled with emotions Geralt couldn’t hope to parse. “And what if we don’t?” Jaskier finally asked. “What’ll happen to me? Will I die?”

“No,” Geralt said sharply. “It’s been, what, ten minutes?” Jaskier nodded. “You’ll have another few hours to go then.” The bard let out an unconscious whimper at the possibility. Geralt shifted, feeling his own cock taking interest. Don’t, he thought simply. But Jaskier smelled like the anticipation of sex and his chest hair went all the way down… Gallantly, Geralt offered, “Is there someone you’d prefer from the party, I could get them and explain.”

Jolting, Jaskier said, “What? No, no, any of those vultures could be the one who poisoned me. No, it’s…” As he stared at Geralt, his eyes seemed to gloss over, a familiar look of lust about him, though his mouth pulled down in a frown. “Are you certain you’re prepared to do this? I would never ask you to, to...”

“It’s fine,” Geralt waved away his objections. He knew Jaskier wouldn’t have demanded this of him, it didn’t seem to even occur to him. But Geralt, guiltily, would not find it a hardship.

Decisively he sank to his knees. Jaskier’s gaze followed him down. Slowly, so as not to startle, Geralt grasped his friend’s wrists and eased them to his sides. His cock jumped up, eager, and wet, and Geralt kept his eyes firmly on it and not up. There was little he could do to allow Jaskier to forget who was sucking him, but keeping his unnatural eyes lowered was one. The smell was better down here, less of the succubi’s sweet poison filtering through his sweat, and more of Jaskier’s natural musk. Experimentally, Geralt reached out and wrapped his fingers around the shaft. It felt warm and heavy in his grip. He stroked upward and felt Jaskier’s hips twitch.

“Ah fuck, that’s, you’re…” Tumbled down from above, and Geralt smirked to himself; the bard might finally be speechless.

He leaned forward and mouthed at the smooth head, finding it wet already and salty on his tongue. Jaskier moaned helplessly, his hips twitching lightly again. Geralt sucked the head and slowly allowed himself to take more. His lips stretched over Jaskier’s not inconsiderable girth. It had been many years since he last took a man in his mouth. What he could not swallow at first, he licked and suckled on, until the shaft was gleaming. Jaskier couldn’t manage to keep his hips still, bucking into Geralt’s waiting hand. At last Geralt was sucking Jaskier down and feeling him nudge at the back of his throat. He would not gag on it, he had the discipline to take him, but Geralt pulled off with an obscene slurp.

“Fuck me,” He said shortly. He was painfully hard in his own trousers. When Jaskier seemed not to comprehend, Geralt guided his right hand to the back of his head. Then he opened his mouth and let Jaskier sit on his tongue and waited.

Jaskier let out a broken sounding, “Oh.” And then, hesitantly, his hips started to move.

Harder, Geralt wanted to bark, like you mean it. Slender skilled fingers wound themselves through Geralt’s hair, and he groaned and hoped Jaskier took that as encouragement. He must’ve, because he urged Geralt closer as he thrust his hips, and soon he was moving in a coordinated rhythm, and Geralt could just sit there and take it. Jaskier smelled beautiful, lust spiking in his scent, so familiar and comforting. It hardly mattered then that it was faked, not when what was happening felt so real. He longed to touch himself, it would surely only take a few pulls until he came, but that wasn’t right, wasn’t what this was about. He was grateful then for his long hair, hoped Jaskier was imagining some woman, the Countess de Stael perhaps, to get him through it. And yet a selfish part groaned aloud, low and deep, and insisted that Jaskier always remember this, like he would remember. Geralt sucked and bobbed his head and Jaskier thrust and fucked his mouth and soon, too soon, Jaskier was coming messily against Geralt’s cheek, on his lips, dripping down his chin. 

“Oh, oh, oh gods, Geralt,” Jaskier stuttered, a note of panic rising in his voice, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I mean, I should’ve warned you, I wasn’t…”

“Shut up,” Geralt told him, wiping his face with his sleeve. At least he could toss out this ‘sad silk trader’ outfit. He chanced to look up, and found Jaskier’s very clear, very blue eyes staring down at him. He sat back on his heels and declared, “You’re cured.”

Jaskier didn’t take that as joyfully as Geralt presumed. “Geralt, I’m so, so sorry. Know that I’m never accepting drinks from strangers again. I can’t begin to express how—”

“Stop apologizing,” Geralt all but snarled, though he regretted it when Jaskier shrunk back. The bard looked… too good, all debauched. Soft and gentle and made to be touched. “Just,” He grunted, fighting with the words, “Put your clothes on and get back out there.”

Blushing, Jaskier bent to retrieve his trousers, the motion nearly knocking their heads together. He deftly fastened the buttons, on his trousers and his shirt, and cast around for his doublet. Geralt found it first, crumpled on the floor, and held it up for him. Their fingers brushed, and oddly, Geralt found himself flushing. His cock pulsed.

“If you won’t let me apologize,” Jaskier said, looking down, “Will you let me thank you? It was not enjoyable feeling at odds with my body.” Geralt grunted softly; he knew the feeling. “Will you, will you stand up, please?” asked Jaskier.

Geralt glanced down at himself; some of the excitement had waned, but not enough. “Just go,” Geralt said instead. Uncharacteristically, Jaskier didn’t say anything and did as he was told. He slipped sideways past Geralt kneeling on the floor. He heard the door open and then close softly, and he knew he was alone. 

Somehow, Geralt was disappointed.

* * *

“Bastard,” Lambert greeted him at the alderman’s office, “I could’ve used that coin.”

Geralt felt his mouth twitch. “Gotta be quicker.” He hefted the basilisk head higher on his back. The contract had been unclear what kind of draconid was nesting in the mountains above the town too small for a proper name. Tracking it had been simple and the fight standard, it was the elevation that posed a problem. A human wouldn’t have been comfortable. Geralt said, “Would’ve been happy for you to take the hike instead.”

Lambert fell into step with him as he entered the small house. “Alderman says I arrived the day after you left, made me wait for you ‘cause he wasn’t willing to pay two witchers for one job. ‘Course he didn’t let me leave, in case you didn’t come back.”

Once the alderman finally paid up, Geralt offered to buy Lambert a drink. Even a tiny mining town had a tavern. Reliably, Lambert accepted. They bicker lightly on the way into the small hovel serving booze.

“You can’t tell me the great White Wolf needs to be chasing down basilisks,” Lambert prodded him. “Aren’t you too busy slaughtering elves and being a friend to humanity?”

“White Wolf has to eat,” He replied, carefully ignoring the other references to the song. Which, he realized, the opening strings were being played just then…

> “When a humble bard,  
>  Graced a ride along,  
>  With Geralt of Rivia,  
>  Along came this song…”

Jaskier. Geralt searched the tavern for the bard and found him in the back. He sat atop a table, strumming his lute, with a small crowd of young people surrounding him. Last they’d seen each other, Jaskier was moving on west for Redania. He hadn’t gotten far.

Lambert, damn him, followed his gaze and said, “Looks like you’ve got a fan.”

“No, that’s...” But something in him wanted to protect Jaskier from Lambert’s cynicism. He set his jaw. “Ignore him. Let’s drink.”

“Well, we’re not going to get drunk off the human swill here.” The other witcher jostled his pack, and a jingle of glass against glass rang out. “Get us some Redanian herbal and I can mix us White Gull.”

Geralt steadied a look at him. Lambert had a gleam in his eye that usually spelled headaches or maiming. But Geralt wasn’t about to back down. So, he went to the bar and ordered the liquor, half hoping this little tavern didn’t carry it. Luck wasn’t with him, as the bartender produced a dusty bottle and charged him exorbitantly.

When he turned ‘round with the bottle, it was with a spike of dread to see Jaskier animatedly chattering at Lambert’s bemused grimace. He approached the table slowly, listening in.

“You’ve the same eyes,” Jaskier was saying, “You could be brothers.” We are, thought Geralt. “But the hair, I don’t know why, but I assumed all witchers had white hair.”

“The wolf’s old,” Lambert replied with a smug air. Unerringly he glanced at Geralt, bringing Jaskier’s attention to him.

“Geralt!” The bard excitedly exclaimed, “I’ve stumbled on another muse! Can you believe a town such as this could find itself with two witchers?” Really, Geralt thought as he cast his gaze around the small tavern, could Jaskier not keep his voice down? He could sense no overtly hostile townspeople, but it was only a matter of time now that he’d dealt with their monster. “Are you coming from Kaer Morhen?” Jaskier asked Lambert with open awe.

“In a roundabout sense, sure,” Lambert answered. He was regarding Jaskier like one might an enthusiastic and naive child. Indulging him. Geralt supposed it could be worse. He passed the Redanian herbal over and Lambert procured the other bottles from his pack.

“What’re you making?” asked Jaskier.

“Human drinks don’t do much for us,” Lambert explained as he set about mixing his ingredients, “But witchers can brew their own liquor to do the trick.”

Jaskier, smiling, pressed, “What’s in it? Eye of newt? Newborn blood?”

Forestalling Lambert, Geralt told the bard, “You can’t have any.” Jaskier pouted. “No. Enough of this stuff could kill a human.”

“That’s true of all alcohol,” Jaskier argued goodnaturedly. Lambert laughed, a touch meanly, and Geralt bristled.

“No. Buy yourself an ale.” Huffing, Jaskier stood, but instead of going to the bar, he meandered over to one of the young men who’d been enjoying his performance. Almost instantly he had the man charmed and rushing to buy him a drink.

“You let him go off like that?” asked Lambert with idle curiosity as he shook his mixture. Geralt’s fist clenched on the table, and at Lambert’s downward glance, he moved it to his knee.

“We aren’t together,” Geralt tried to say smoothly, but it came out gruff, revealing.

“Why else would you keep a human around?” Lambert poured them both a portion of the swirling white liquid. Geralt downed his glass and set it down for another.

“He won’t leave,” He lied.

Jaskier left him all the time. For a beautiful woman, he would fall madly in love for a month and stay with her, while Geralt had to move on. For a man, he left for a night and returned to Geralt bruised and limping and ecstatic. And sometimes he left for the big cities, lured by human culture that Geralt could have no part in.

Lambert knew him well enough that he smirked and drained his own glass. “If you truly wanted him gone, he’d be a bloody mess by the side of the road.” 

“I’m not a monster,” Geralt grumbled.

More somberly, Lambert retorted, “Yes we are.”

They drank and drank and drank. Abandoning his paramour, Jaskier flitted about like a hummingbird, alighting here and there while the witchers lost time. They didn’t discuss much beyond comparing hunts, they never truly did, and the bard lapped up the details Lambert threw carelessly around.

“This one,” Lambert had lifted his tunic and pointed to a large scar on his ribs, “I got just a few months back, from a Griffin. She had a brood of hatchlings. Had to drown the little fuckers.” Geralt observed Jaskier’s eager face fall into something sad. “Mother gave me this in return. Swooped down just as I was off-ing the last one and attacked in a mad frenzy. Feathers were flying everywhere. Couldn’t reach the silver sword on my back, so I wrestled with her and managed to grab her by the beak.” Lambert acted the scene out with his fist, punching at an invisible foe. “I beat her head into the ground, but as I did, she got me good with her talons. I was bleeding all over, but I still managed to break her neck with my bare hands.” He leaned back in his chair, proud of himself. As if Griffins weren’t one of the first targets of fresh recruits.

“That’s,” Jaskier murmured, watching Lambert starry-eyed, “That’s an incredible tale.”

“Hmph,” Lambert sniffed, “Incredible is a good word. The town elder didn’t believe me when I told him. I stupidly only brought a trophy from the mother, so I got paid for one monster, not all five. Should’ve let the fuckers grow up, then we’d have some job security, eh Geralt?” He hummed in reply; the liquor was making his chest tight, or that could be the enthralled way Jaskier was leaning into the other man’s space and Lambert allowed it. Jaskier reached out to touch the gnarled edges of the scar and Geralt found himself slapping his hand away. Both men stared at him.

Belatedly, Geralt said, “Don’t be rude.”

Lambert said, far too knowingly, “It’s fine, he can touch.” Geralt glared, longing to bare his teeth, as Jaskier once again reached out. His fingers were feather light as they trailed on Lambert’s skin. The scar tissue was angry and puckered but Geralt imagined Jaskier’s touch was a cooling balm. Lambert looked at him with a challenge in his eyes.

Geralt stood abruptly, and the blood rushed from his head. He sagged dangerously to one side as the room spun. Two hands wrapped around his bicep and pulled him upright.

“Whoa there,” Jaskier’s voice rang too loud in his ear, “It seems you’ve had enough my friend.”

“‘M fine,” Geralt brushed his lovely slender hands off. “Need the privy. Be back.” He staggered to the tavern door unhindered by Jaskier. It would be easier going if the floor would stop bucking under him. But Geralt made it and rounded the building to piss.

When he returned, he stopped and sagged in the doorway. Jaskier and Lambert were deep in conversation, heads bowed together. Jaskier’s hand rested on the witcher’s shoulder. The White Gull had dulled Geralt’s senses so he imagined what they must be saying: _take me to bed,_ Jaskier begged, _for you are so loquacious and brave and sexy_ … _But what about Geralt_ , Lambert replied with concern, _won’t that hurt him?_ Jaskier said, _Why should it? He and I aren’t lovers. I am free to fuck whomever I like, and for the above stated reasons, I like you much better than Geralt._

“Geralt?” He hadn’t realized he closed his eyes until he opened them and saw a blurry mop of brunette hair in his vision. He blinked, and the mass resolved itself into Jaskier. The bard was staring at him with… with… emotions, Geralt couldn’t place which. “Alright, you’re definitely done for the night,” He declared, “You’re falling asleep standing up. Let’s get you to bed, shall we?”

Yes, thought Geralt, take me to bed, bard. He lurched when Jaskier pried him off the wall. Jaskier slung Geralt’s arm over his slim shoulders, used to bearing no more than his lute, and attempted to maneuver them to the stairs. Churlish, Geralt dragged his feet, and snickered to himself as Jaskier unbalanced.

Jaskier shot him an irritated glance, then called out, “Lambert, would you give me a hand?” His amusement fled and Geralt got his feet under himself. The other witcher might’ve said something in reply, but Geralt didn’t notice, too focused on putting one foot in front of the other. In any case, the other witcher did not appear, and Jaskier managed to get him up the stairs and into a narrow room almost entirely taken up by a single bed. Jaskier made some move to push him onto it, and Geralt held his arm, and with a grunt they both tumbled onto the surprisingly plush surface.

“Hm,” Geralt hummed, running his hand up Jaskier’s lean forearm to his shoulder. The bard had landed half on top of him. He was warm through his flimsy layers of cotton and silk. Their legs tangled together, and Jaskier’s hip was more than warm where it came into contact with Geralt’s groin.

With his other hand, Geralt cupped the back of his head, stroking through the soft brown spikes. He wet his lips. Jaskier’s eyes were wide and focused on the motion. Yes, Geralt thought, and he leaned up and brought their mouths together messily. The angle was awful, and his nec k b ent oddly, so he coaxed Jaskier closer with his hand. Ah, that was better. Their lips slotted together like they were made to.  There was the mere suggestion of stubble rasping together. Geralt sucked on his lower lip and recalled sucking the bard’s cock. Maybe Jaskier would like that again.

Jaskier pulled back, and Geralt let him go with a soft whine. “Who knew,” The bard murmured, a soft light in his beautiful, beloved eyes, “That Geralt of Rivia was a randy drunk.”

I’m not, Geralt wanted to say, it’s you, only you make me this way. But something held his tongue.

Patting him on the chest, Jaskier said airily, “Let’s hope for both our sakes you don’t remember that in the morning. I truly don’t need to be dealing with, well…” He trailed off, and Geralt dropped his arms to his sides with icy clarity. _You_ , Jaskier wasn’t saying, _your attentions, those pesky feelings they never did rid you of… I haven’t got the stomach for it all_.

Awkwardly Jaskier attempted to extract himself from the narrow bed and the body on it. Geralt threw his arm over his eyes and groaned long and low. Let this be a bad dream, or a hallucination from the White Gull. He’d rather watch Lambert seduce his bard than live through this rejection.

“Stop your moaning,” chided Jaskier, finally free, “You’ll be back to normal in the morning, all grumpy and growly. Actually, do witchers get hangovers, even with your special witcher’s brew? It’s hard to picture you acting _more_ annoyed with the world. Perhaps Lambert has a cure in that bag of his.”

Why don’t you go to him, Geralt thought bitterly.

“Oh… well I was going to stay, make sure you don’t fall off the cot in the night or something…”

Get out, he thought, just leave, you always do.

“Geralt… Yes, maybe you’re right, I had better see to Lambert, make sure he isn’t causing a ruckus downstairs. You’ll be fine without me, obviously, you always are… Goodnight Geralt.”

As if it were a spell, Geralt found the blackness of sleep overtaking him. He’d leave in the morning so Jaskier could be rid of him for good. Yes, he’d definitely wake before dawn...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z49EeSplGxc) song, a cover by Hozier called My Love Will Never Die. Also used in this chapter is a verse from [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=12ZRYj3V6dk) song, Caroline by Noah Gunderson.
> 
> Thank you so much for your kind comments, they really help motivate me to write! I've written other stories for Geralt/Jaskier, [Tinseltown](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22075522/chapters/52683187) and [Tuesday Night Pies](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22573195). Please give those a look while this waits to update.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: some dirty talk uses humiliation and canon-typical slurs against sex workers.

“Just a friend, I hope,” Yennefer asked silky and sweet. _No_ , Geralt thought but wouldn’t say, and yet either it crossed his face or the witch was reading his mind because she said, “Drat. There go my plans for the evening.”

“Please,” He murmured, guiltily hoping Jaskier was in too much pain to hear them, “Help him.”

As she circled like a bird of prey, she remarked, “Your heartbeat, it's extraordinarily slow. You're a mutant. A witcher. Geralt of Rivia. The famous White Wolf!” Geralt grimaced; his fame and the moniker was entirely due to the man struggling to breathe a few feet away. “I thought you'd have fangs or horns or something.”

His agitation growing, he shot back, “I had them filed down.”

“I also thought witchers didn’t feel the tender emotions.” The witch stopped her perusing of his body and leaned into his space. “How curious.”

Desperate, he said, “Please, Jaskier here needs immediate attention. And then, if you'd like, I'll indulge your curiosity all night long.”

Yennefer raised her perfectly manicured brows at that, but Geralt meant it; fucking her would not be a hardship. Whatever she wanted from him could not be worth more than Jaskier’s life. 

Thankfully, she seemed to decide something behind those violet eyes, because she swept from him and moved to Jaskier. The bard was still wheezing through the lump in his throat and blood coated his lips. Looking at him again sent an ache through Geralt. Yennefer did something with her hands and Jaskier collapsed like a cut marionette.

“Relax,” Yennefer chided him when he tensed, “I’ve put him in a healing sleep. You have time to bathe and make yourself presentable for when he wakes.”

Geralt fought that, not eager to leave Jaskier with the witch, but she insisted. There was nothing to be gained by angering her, so he acquiesced to a bath. He cleaned himself cursorily and dressed in the clothes Yennefer left by the tubside. When he found them again Yennefer had transferred Jaskier to an upper bedroom with a four poster bed. Geralt stared at Jaskier’s sleeping form, his red-stained lips, the hair swept off his face; he looked as if a single kiss would rouse him and make him whole.

“So,” said Yennefer from the doorway, “What is the bard to you, witcher?”

Geralt swallowed. In the years before Cintra, before Jaskier really grew into manhood, Geralt would’ve said he was nothing more than an annoyance. Yet as time went on, he craved the bard’s presence, his energy, his nonstop prattle. And he craved his body, too.

“He’s a…”

Yennefer supplied, “Friend? Lover?”

He grit his teeth. Finally said, “We keep each other company, when we can. We don’t fuck.”

“But you’d like to,” Yennefer stated plainly. He didn’t respond to that; either she would read his mind or she wouldn’t, but he needn’t embarrass himself further.

“I said some things to him.” And he didn’t only mean the ‘fillingless pie’ jab. He’d been pushing Jaskier away for years, and their times apart had lengthened, Jaskier straying longer and longer in his dalliances. And Geralt, he couldn’t stop himself, he lashed out more. “I’d like it not to be the last thing he remembers.”

“He won't remember much if he's dead.” Cold dread gripped his heart, and he rounded on Yennefer. She smiled, like he passed a test. “It's a joke. He will survive. And recover his vocal talents. Does that satisfy you?”

No, and he told her as much. He didn’t trust her, and it seemed after their conversation took a turn, he was right not to. Lilac and gooseberries, that scent would overtake him, and linger in his nostrils as he left consciousness.

* * *

Things change after meeting Yennefer. For one thing, they keep meeting.

“Geralt,” Yennefer greeted him idly at the apothecary’s, her on her way out and him on the way in, “Lovely to see you. And Jaskier, still alive?” The bard nodded at her somewhat awkwardly. “How surprising. Do carry on.”

“Geralt,” She greeted him with slightly more suspicion when her carriage crossed their path, “And Jaskier, trailing along behind. Don’t you ever tire of reeking of a horse’s ass?”

“Geralt, now stop it,” She said once he’d untied her from a pyre’s stake, “I’m really not interested in being stalked across the continent.”

“We’re saving your life!” Jaskier saw fit to shout as more witch hunters emerged from the shadows.

Boredly, Yennefer flicked both her wrists and opened a portal to somewhere bright and sunny. “Oh Jaskier, it’s adorable that you think that.” And she stepped through and disappeared.

Only they kept finding each other. Within weeks of each parting, Geralt would all but trip over the ebony-haired sorceress. It was almost reminiscent of the way Jaskier and he would cross paths. 

But that’s the other change; Jaskier doesn’t leave. Months passed, and then years, and Geralt realized he’d been holding his breath, waiting for the next person to catch Jaskier’s fancy. Oh, he’d still fuck in nearly every town they go through, but he returned to Geralt within hours, thrumming with energy and eager to hit the road.

One night, when Jaskier was busy fucking a blacksmith’s apprentice with calloused hands and hazel eyes, Geralt went down to the stables. “Destiny is bullshit,” He told Roach as he brushed out her coat. The mare sniffed to signal she was listening. “The world is chaos and destiny is how humans try to rationalize it. Their frightened little minds see shapes in the shadows. It’s different for us, girl. You and I see things as they are. A spade is a spade, after all.” He ducked down to muck out her hooves, Roach obliging at every step, enjoying the pampering. “The world is so chaotic that you can meet the same person over and over again without really trying. Maybe I’ve met other people dozens of times but forgot their faces. It’s these two that stand out, that’s all.”

Roach snorted and tossed her tail.

“Yeah,” Geralt agreed, “I wasn’t really buying it either.”

* * *

The next time Yennefer greeted him by saying, “Buy a girl a drink, at the very least,” which was fair advice given they were in a tavern. She’d come out of nowhere as Geralt did his usual routine of brooding in a corner while Jaskier performed.

> “Her offspring had death ravaged,  
> She with mighty strength sought to avenge.  
> Not heedless of valor, but mindful of glory,  
> The white wolf’s kinsman was he.  
> Cast down his fine silver-edged blade,  
> He hoped in his strength to wrestle her tame.  
> Reckless of living, bold and battle-grim,  
> Then mighty in struggle, he bashed her head in!”

Geralt grimaced at Lambert’s boasting made song. “Yeah, let’s drink,” He agreed, signaling to a barmaid. Two ales arrived for them and they toasted to nothing.

“Mm,” Yennefer hummed as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, “Tell me, Geralt, honestly: are you truly not seeking me out?”

Shaking his head, Geralt said, “Believe me, I wish it were that simple.” Yennefer looked grim, understandably so.

“I must ask again,” She said, “What was your last wish?”

A furrow in his brow, Geralt mumbled, “Your life and happiness.”

Yennefer made an impatient gesture with her wrist. “Exact words, if you please.”

“‘I wish for Yennefer to live and be happy.’” It sounded so trite and simplistic out loud. But it had worked, so it seemed.

“What is happiness?” Yennefer asked, her frustration evident. “What can that mean when there are so many variables? Is happiness not fleeting like a mountain of sand on a beach? I am not happy now, so has your wish failed, or is it working in ways we cannot yet discern?” All of those were rhetorical, he assumed, so Geralt stayed silent. “I don’t enjoy being the puppet on a djinn’s strings. _I_ wish you had let me go through with my plan.”

“It was killing you, you can’t deny that.”

“Death would—”

“What, be preferable to my acquaintance?”

“Better than being trapped by a man.”

“If I could release you, I would,” He said and meant it. “It was never my intention to bind you to me.”

Yennefer leaned back in her seat, something in her demeanor cooling. “I suppose there are worse men.” Her gaze flicked noticeably to Jaskier, who was at that moment accepting a flower from an adoring fan. He tucked it behind his ear, and it gave him a spritely, elven appearance. In a tone meant to provoke, Yennefer added, “I truly cannot see his worth to you. He seems utterly ordinary.”

Geralt smiled in spite of all his instincts. “He is.”

She drank from her tankard, smacked her lips, and asked, “Are you in love with the fool?” Saying nothing, he dropped his gaze to the table. “I was in love once,” Yennefer remarked with a casualness that implied anything but. “At least, we played at being in love. It was good for a time, I’ll admit, but life and love are like oil and water. Or perhaps time is water and love is a rock, slowly worn away bit by bit, until it crumbles into nothing.”

“Your metaphors are unwieldy,” said Geralt.

“I suppose I’m saying you’re better off as you are than exposing your heart to that sort of damage. In any case, the bard will be dead in a matter of years. Decades if he’s lucky, though he seems not the sort to waste away in bed. So you need only pine for so long.” She said it as if Jaskier’s mortality was a boon and not a truth he shrank from. “Put your fangs away,” She ordered, and he realized he’d bared his teeth unconsciously, “He’s coming over.”

Indeed, Jaskier meandered his way to their table, a tankard held aloft in one hand and lute in the other. He sat heavily down on the bench beside Geralt, which barely had room so he grunted and shifted to allow him space. From her chair, Yennefer smirked.

“Yennefer,” Jaskier greeted her with false surprise, “How alarming to find you with a smile."

“Jaskier, are those wrinkles beneath your eyes or dark bags?” From their many points of contact, Geralt could feel Jaskier’s body tense and twitch as the jab landed.

“Mind-fucked anyone to murder for you lately?”

“No, but I keep my options open.”

“Cheers,” Jaskier said, raising his tankard, and Yennefer clinked it with hers and they both drank deep. Geralt shook his head; their dynamic was beyond his understanding.

* * *

The pond was unfairly lovely; frogs croaked a melody and torchbugs danced over the placid water. He could understand why the young lovers of the village snuck away here. He could even understand why a specter would haunt it. What he couldn’t understand was why Jaskier insisted on coming along.

“It’ll be boring,” Geralt had warned him. From what the villagers said, he suspected this specter was a nightwraith, which meant a lot of waiting until the moon was high.

But Jaskier was undaunted. “Precisely why you need me to keep your spirits up, no pun intended.”

His spirits, so to speak, were not helped by the romantic tunes Jaskier played, seemingly unconsciously. He hadn’t said much since Geralt set up his fire and sat down to wait. Geralt tilted his face up to the moon. Any moment now.

Of course Jakier chose then to speak. “What will we do if it doesn’t appear?”

“Have to lure it out,” Geralt grumbled.

“Right,” Jaskier drawled, picking a merry melody, “And how were you planning on doing that?”

“Blood might draw it,” He replied, but privately he knew it was a long shot. Truthfully he’d have to give up for the night and go back to the village, see if he couldn’t interrogate anyone as to who the nightwraith had been in life, and use whatever information he found tomorrow.

“This specter, it killed canoodling couples, didn’t it?” He grunted in reply. Jaskier set his lute on the ground. “I was afraid of this.” That got his attention; Jaskier, afraid of what? “Has it occurred to you that we might have to… kiss?”

Geralt blinked. Jaskier stared challengingly back at him.

Finally, “You can’t be serious.”

“Listen, what’s our working theory here? A woman drowned in this pond and now she comes out to haunt the people who come here. Why are they coming here? Well obviously they’re sneaking out of the village to make love under the moonlight.” Make love, Gods help him, let Jaskier never say those words to him again. “I’m just saying, maybe it’s not a coincidence that she’s not attacking, I don’t know, fishermen. Maybe she even sees your big witcheryness and won’t come out. I couldn’t blame her.”

“So your plan,” Geralt said slowly, “Is to lure her out by…”

Jaskier huffed, his brows knitting together, and said, “I know we agreed never to discuss it, but you _have_ had my dick in your mouth, so I think kissing me isn’t much more of a sacrifice.”

Geralt bared his teeth at the reminder. Yes, he had, and it had been great until it ended, as had kissing Jaskier that night with Lambert. Tonight looked like it would be moving in the same direction, like a runaway horse he couldn’t calm.

Desperately hoping Jaskier would retract his offer, he spat, “I didn’t think you were this hard up.” Jaskier’s posture stiffened, as Geralt had expected. He didn’t expect the way Jaskier consciously released the tension in his shoulders.

“You wouldn’t be fussing so much if you didn’t think it was a good idea,” He pointed out, damn him. Vaguely he noted Jaskier’s nervous tells that made him shit at gwent, the way he rubbed his fingers together, how he couldn’t quite hold eye contact. At least he wasn’t being totally cavalier.

Through gritted teeth, Geralt barked, “Fine.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened. “Yes? Truly?”

“Don’t go back on your word now,” said Geralt, although he'd wished for just that. He stood and unsheathed his silver sword. Jaskier glanced quickly from his face to the blade. Geralt gestured him impatiently to stand. Like a newborn foal, the bard staggered to his feet and closed the distance between them. Jaskier careened into his chest and Geralt steadied him with an arm around his waist.

“Idiot,” He scolded.

Jaskier said, “I sure am,” and then leaned up the scant inches to kiss him. It was barely a brush of lips, hesitant, a question in kiss form. Geralt could do nothing but answer. Tightening his arm, he bent Jaskier back. His tongue ventured to Jaskier’s lips, tasting him, bidding him to open. He did with a surprised squeak, and though he curled his tongue in briefly, Geralt pulled back.

“Too much?” He asked. 

Jaskier licked his lips and shook his head. “Do that again?” He said breathlessly and, helpless, Geralt reeled him in and licked into his mouth. He tasted like a sweet wine, tart and sharp and sticky. One of Jaskier’s bottom teeth was sharp and Geralt groaned when it cut into him. A fire flared in his gut, desire banked for too long not to ignite at the first catch of timber. 

Their chests pressed together and Jaskier squirmed at the feel of the hard ridge of Geralt’s armor. Gentling his hold, Geralt kissed him deeply in apology. The sword fell to the ground. His gloved hand curled around Jaskier’s jaw. He felt blind without the sensation of Jaskier’s skin.

He whispered into Jaskier’s mouth, “Hold on.” Barely leaning back, Geralt put his gloved finger between his teeth and tugged. The leather came off with a snap and Jaskier inhaled sharply.

“Oh fuck,” He whimpered, leaning heavily into Geralt’s chest. His pupils were blown wide with lust, and the primal part of Geralt thrilled. He repeated the move with his second glove to watch Jaskier sway at the sound. With both hands free, Geralt cradled Jaskier’s jaw and stroked his fingertips along his cheeks. The bard leaned into his touch like he was starved for it. Again he whispered, “Oh fuck,” and Geralt silenced him with a burning kiss. Their lips parted and touched, parted and touched, teasing to the point that Jaskier moaned deep in his throat. Jaskier’s hands came up to the straps of his pauldrons and tugged ineffectually at them. Understanding, Geralt released him entirely and set about removing his armor.

Quietly, in a strange voice, almost lyrically, Jaskier said, “ _Undo that hardened breastplate which you wear, and let your vestments fall to the soft grass_ …”

Pausing, Geralt asked, “What?”

Jaskier shook his head. “Sorry. Composing. I’ll hush.”

Don’t stop, Geralt thought as he stripped his chest piece off, let me hear all your disjointed thoughts, let me be certain that it’s you I’m with and not a dream.

Jaskier’s hands returned, this time playing at the ties of his shirt, using them to guide Geralt back to his mouth. Indulging him for a moment, Geralt said, “Lie down.” At once Jaskier fell to his knees and Geralt groaned as his thoughts spiraled. Jaskier’s greedy hands were hot on his hipbones. He raked up Geralt’s shirt and pressed a wet kiss to his stomach. Geralt aided him by stripping the shirt over his head. But he was going to do this right, so he repeated, “Lie down.” Without breaking eye contact, Jaskier scrambled back onto his elbows. Geralt followed him down and placed his balled up shirt under the bard’s head. Jaskier’s eyes did something funny at the corners, something he couldn’t interpret but seemed at odds with the smile he affected.

“Geralt of Rivia,” He cooed teasingly, “You big softie.”

I am, he thought as he scowled, far too soft, and your gentle, dexterous hands will break me. And yet I yearn to be broken by you.

Kissing Jaskier so he couldn’t make any more observations, Geralt pressed his bare chest against the bard’s open doublet and the soft cotton of his undershirt. Bypassing the upper layers entirely, his palm cupped the front of the bard’s trousers. He made a pleased noise at finding Jaskier hot and hard. Jaskier pushed up into his hand and Geralt rubbed him firmly. Yes, his mouth watered at the memory of that lovely cock in his mouth. Eager, he reared back, his knees bracketing Jaskier’s hips, and fumbled with the buttons.

“Yes, yes,” Jaskier chanted like a priest, “Yes, darling, take me out.”

Darling, the world curled behind Geralt’s ribs, _darling_.

The air shifted and Geralt tensed before he even noted the chill creeping up his skin. A shriek sounded directly behind him. Without thinking, Geralt dropped to a crouch over Jaskier just as blade-sharp nails raked across his back. He grunted, feeling his blood spill from the cuts, and glanced for his silver sword. Within arm’s reach, but he’d have to abandon Jaskier. Instead he twisted, back aching, and cast Yrden around them. The nightwraith, nothing more than a blur of stone white flesh, raged against the sigil’s edge.

“Jaskier, my sword,” He said, and the bard acted swiftly, shifting beneath him to grab for its hilt. The seconds ticked by agonizingly slowly as the nightwraith struggled to escape. At long last Jaskier pressed the sword into his hand and Geralt sprang up. Three short slashed made quick work of the weakened specter, and with an agonized wail, she disintegrated into dust.

The pond was quiet. Not even the frogs or insects chirped. Geralt breathed harshly out his nose.

He startled at the tentative touch to his shoulder. “You’re bleeding,” Jaskier said into the quiet. His voice sounded hoarse, but Geralt hadn’t even had a chance to make him scream. He shrugged off the hand.

“I’ll heal.”

“So do we all,” said Jaskier oddly, and he added, “Let me bandage them anyway.”

Geralt didn’t think he could stand that just then. Ignoring Jaskier, he bent and retrieved his shirt. With one long _rip_ he tore the fabric in half and wrapped it around his chest twice. He tied the sleeves together and the makeshift bandage was done. Jaskier made a noise, rough in his throat, and Geralt made the mistake of looking at him. The shock of the specter hadn’t faded his flush, and his mouth was glistening and swollen, his eyes cast towards his feet. You don’t have to touch me anymore, Geralt thought morosely, shouldn’t that make you happy?

As a peace offering, Geralt ventured, “Your plan worked.”

Visibly shaking himself, Jaskier smiled. “I am brilliant, aren’t I? You ought to give me more credit.” Wasn’t I just, he thought. “Come now, let’s go claim our reward, shall we? I don’t suppose because I came up with the clever idea to lure the beast, I should take a small portion of the coin?” Back to normal, Geralt thought with a growl, bending to don his chest piece. “I’ll take that as a no, then. Very well.”

* * *

“ _Pin me with an arrow of such swift delight,_ ” Jaskier mused, strumming his strings, " _Carry light my cries across starred skies_ … Does that work, _delight_ and _light_ like that?”

I couldn’t possibly know, Geralt thought, stomping out the remnants of their night’s fire. He rolled up the bedding and strapped the bundle to Roach’s saddle. While there he fished an apple from their stores, took a large bite out of it, and held the rest out for the mare. Roach munched happily on the treat. Jaskier prattled on without being much help. When was he ever, Geralt smirked to himself.

“ _Though my skin does_ … tremble? Quake, no, two syllables. Aha! Quiver! What with arrows and such, oh that’s clever.”

“If you’re done,” Geralt nearly said _sucking your own dick,_ but he stopped himself, too provocative for early morning, “May we move on? I want to reach Ghelibol before nightfall.”

“Yes, Geralt,” said Jaskier absently, still picking at his lute. Then he uttered, “Darling,” surely to himself, and Geralt prickled.

“Get up,” He snarled, hefting himself onto Roach, “Or I leave you here.” That worked. The bard scrambled to his feet and hurried to catch up. It wasn’t long before they reached the main road once more, and the duo set off North.

“Ever been to the Skellige Isles? Surely even Skelligers have need of a witcher from time to time. It’s said their ale is so rich and potent, one tankard is enough to fell a Continental man...” Geralt didn’t answer. It was best not to engage Jaskier, the man could carry a conversation on his own. And, privately, Geralt enjoyed hearing him speak of anything.

“...Mahakam ale will put hair on your chest, certainly, but it’s also so dense you’re practically chewing the hops yourself...” Jaskier monologued on the best brews of the land, lute slung over his back as he walked, Geralt keeping Roach in pace with him. Like this, Geralt could pretend there was no tension between them, no actions he couldn’t take back, no constant burning desire to crawl under Jaskier’s skin.

“...Now there’s a brewery just East of Novigrad that makes divine mead, but I’ve found their ale leaves something to be desired…”

Every night since the pond, he’d lain awake hard in his trousers listening to Jaskier breathe mere feet away. How could fate be so cruel as to place the thing he wanted most so close, and yet...

“...I’ve developed a taste for fine Cintran ale, that tartness that lingers on the tongue…”

“When were you in Cintra?” Geralt asked before he could think not to.

Jaskier’s easy steps faltered. “Did I say Cintran? I meant, er, Bruggian of course. Common mistake to make.”

Liar, he wanted to spit. But he only repeated the question, “When were you last in Cintra?”

“Oh, about two summers ago,” said Jaskier breezily, as though he had _any right._ “I’ve done my best to appear at the Princess’ nameday every year but I’m afraid I’ve fallen off lately.”

Unbidden the image of Princess Pavetta in the arms of Sir Duny appeared to him. Her vomiting on the floor signalling what they all dreaded. How old would she be now? And how old would the child…

“Geralt,” Jaskier interrupted his maelstrom thoughts, “Would you like me to tell you of her?”

“No,” Geralt snapped at him, “I want you to never speak of Cintran Princesses and the like again.”

Jaskier hummed softly. “I see. I _had_ been doing that, you know, I merely slipped the once.” Every summer, Geralt thought, he’d gone back every summer. “What was that?” Jaskier asked.

“Hm.” Geralt grunted.

“I don’t know if you’re aware, but I think sometimes you speak more than you mean to.”

“Shut up, Jaskier.”

* * *

“I’m not avoiding anything,” Geralt told Roach sternly. The mare flicked her silky tail. “I suppose you’d like to sleep with dirt in your hair?” Roach blinked one soulful eye at him. “I thought so.”

Brushing Roach had always calmed him; the repetitive motion was ingrained in his arms. He stroked all the way down to her hooves and back. The soft susurration of the brush wound it way into Geralt’s breathing, long, deep, and steady. He detangled her mane with his fingers, running his hands over and over through the strands.

And then, the door to the inn opened, and Geralt heard a familiar giggle. He froze. No, surely destiny wouldn’t be this cruel.

“Over here,” An unknown man’s voice said gruffly.

Cheerily, Jaskier said, “Yes, sir!” Geralt closed his eyes and leaned into Roach. Not again, he couldn’t handle witnessing Jaskier with another man again. Unconsciously tracking them by sound, Geralt surmised that they were just around the corner, at the back of the inn building. Not for the first time, he cursed his witcher’s senses. Too clearly he could hear them disarranging clothes with wandering hands.

“How d’ye want it?” The man asked.

Don’t, Geralt thought, but Jaskier said, “Fuck me.”

“Turn around,” said the man and there was a rustling as Jaskier complied.

Geralt had to go. This was private, never mind that Jaskier was doing it outside. It was wrong to keep listening. And yet, like a glutton for punishment, he stayed. There came a long drawn out groan and Geralt shivered. So this was what Jaskier sounded like when he was being fucked.

“Harder,” demanded Jaskier, voice low and raw, “Harder, damn you, I can take it.”

His partner grunted, “Whore,” and impotent white-hot rage flooded Geralt’s limbs.

Jaskier let out a moan, “Yes… fuck me like you paid for it. Harder, deeper, _please!_ ” The slapping of flesh was brutal and obscene. Jaskier’s breath punched out of him in little _ah ah ahs_. “Harder, harder,” He chanted, “Oh, yes, oh, oh, oh, right there, right there…”

“Gods, shut your mouth, do you want the whole inn to hear ye?”

Muffled, as if he had a hand to his mouth, Jaskier said, “ _Seek to bind us with love,_ ” and Geralt thought, composing, with a sick twist to his stomach. He needed to leave, not only was this wrong, it was going to kill him.

And then Jaskier whimpered, “Ah, Ger—Mm!” Geralt’s blood froze. Although he’d cut himself off, there was no mistaking what Jaskier’d been about to utter. It… it seemed impossible. And yet, he knew that whimper of lust and knew the way Jaskier’s lips formed his name.

Was Jaskier imagining the man fucking him was Geralt?

“Such a slut, aren’t ye?” The man grunted, his voice thrumming with victory he hadn’t earned. It made Geralt grind his teeth. “You take it up the arse so well. Loose like a whore. How many cocks have you had in your life, or can ye not count that high? I ought to keep you for myself, keep ye ready for a fucking whenever I please. You’d like that wouldn’t you, slut?” Jaskier mumbled an incomprehensible assent. No, Geralt thought, you can’t leave me, not now. He had an urge to round the corner and rip the man from Jaskier, cradle the bard, beg him to stay. But his muscles were locked tight. “Are you going to come plastered against bricks like my dirty whore? Can you come just from my cock in ye? I bet ye can.” Whimpering, Jaskier sounded so desperate. Touch him, Geralt thought, have mercy on us both. 

Jaskier’s fucked out voice rose from, “Ah, ah, oh, yes,” to, “Fuck, fuck, fuck me, yes, yes, fuck!” Geralt’s sensitive hearing picked up the nearly noiseless release hitting solid surface.

“Oh that’s good,” The man crooned, “Such a good boy.” And then he was coming as well, groaning and slicking his cock in his hand. Good, Geralt thought, you can’t come inside him, no one can.

Roach shifted her weight and Geralt was brought forcibly into himself once more. He splayed his hand across her neck in silent apology. He wasn’t sure how long it took Jaskier and the man to go back inside, but it felt like an age. Finally he was alone with his horse.

“Alright,” Geralt conceded to Roach, “I’m avoiding something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so pleased by the response the first chapter garnered. At this point I'm not sure if I'm going to stop where Season 1 ended or continue this AU beyond Geralt finding Ciri. Let me know what you think?
> 
> This story made me write a Beowulf inspired stanza of epic poetry and a whole Shakespearian sonnet. Can you believe?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place entirely in an alternate version of ep 6. No TWs.

“You’ll catch a goodly amount for that mare if you sell now,” the leader of the dwarf company called out to him. Geralt ignored the taunt, focused on tethering Roach with enough lead for her to graze.

Jaskier came to a stop next to him. “Charming how everyone wants to get their hands on roach these days, isn’t it?” He was referring to the impatient peasants who’d rifled through their saddlebags.

Grimacing, Geralt said, “He means we won’t make it out alive.”

“Wait, what?” Jaskier stammered softly, caught off guard. “No one mentioned anything about impending death.”

He shook his head. They’d mentioned the treacherous path up the mountain filled with any number of monsters enough times. Yet somehow Jaskier was too smitten with the two Zerrikanian warrior women to keep up.

Yennefer approached and without preamble asked, “Why’re you here, Geralt?”

Sweeping his hand along Roach’s neck, Geralt said, “Maybe I want to look out for you. Or maybe it’s the coin.”

“Hm, somehow I suspect it’s both and more besides.” Her gaze flicked to Jaskier, holding his lute before himself awkwardly. “Jaskier.”

“Yennefer.”

She cocked her head. “Run along now, the adults are talking.” A flush rose to Jaskier’s cheeks, and he grumbled something about his age, but did leave them to trail after the dwarves. Yennefer watched him go with mild interest. “Have you fucked the bard yet?” She asked him. Geralt thought ruefully, no, not truly. “Ah, came close did you?”

“Didn’t you tell me I should carry on without getting my heart hurt?”

“It’s a little late for that,” She said with a smile that irked him. Her hand drifted to his arm, and she walked her fingers up his sleeve, tantalizing. “Are you trying to use me to make him jealous?”

With a shrug that happened to displace her touch, Geralt asked, “Would it work?”

Yennefer threw her head back and laughed. “Oh Geralt, you are gorgeous and thick. In another life we could have had a lot of fun.” He tried not to be offended at that, truly, but it proved too difficult.

“Why are you here, Yen?”

She gestured vaguely behind her. “I’m here with my escort, Noble Sir Eyck of Densele, to assist him in killing the dragon.”

Geralt shook his head, more to himself than her; if she didn’t want to be honest he had no interest in speaking with her. “Goodbye, Yennefer,” He said, and then, “See you, Roach.” 

“Geralt,” She said, halting him instantly. He turned and saw her posture relax. Reluctantly, Yennefer declared, “I really am here for the dragon. There are certain healing properties it’s rumored to possess.”

With a furrowed brow, Geralt stepped closer, lowered his voice. “I thought your transformation healed all parts of you?”

For a moment she chewed her lip, then divulged, “At the cost of losing others, yes.”

Understanding hit him like a gut punch. “Yennefer…”

“Do not,” She warned, “Pity me.”

He licked his lips. “Those rumors… they’re just that.”

“I suppose we’ll see at the top of the mountain.” With a tight parting smile, Yennefer left him and went to her ‘escort’s’ side. Geralt watched them for a moment, then took after Borch and the others with long strides. Jaskier, lingering at the back, caught his eye.

As they fell into step, he observed, “You looked cozy.” Geralt grunted. That was the end of that.

* * *

Geralt had never paid heed to human politics. As the discussion around the campfire turned to the vassal state, their supposed prize, Geralt let the conversation fade around him. Borch, beside him, seemed to do the same.

The dwarf, Yarpin, was saying, “The rightful son of Nilfgaard has returned, burnin’ through the south.”

“With Fringilla as his mage,” Interrupted Yennefer with a laugh, “Nilfgaard’s a joke.”

“I saw it with my own eyes down in Ebbing. Those zealot freaks are inching closer by the day. Won’t be long till they try and take Sodden. Next it’ll be Temeria. Redania. Cintra.”

“No,” This time Jaskier cut in with a sobriety Geralt rarely heard, “Queen Calanthe would die before letting them take what’s hers.”

Borch said something then, something oddly pointed at Yennefer, that made the mage stand and announce she’d retire for ‘beauty sleep’. The dwarves took the opportunity to retire as well, leaving Borch, Téa, Véa, Geralt and Jaskier around the fire.

“So…” Jaskier began to speak, with the air of one filling the silence. “We’re all about to have new evil overlords, and dragons are in fact a thing.” The Zerrikanians snickered, and Jaskier pouted, “Oh, you’ve all seen a dragon before, have you?” The women looked smugly back at him. “Geralt,” said Jaskier, “Will you please tell them?”

Glancing sidelong at the bard, Geralt felt a sudden rush of fondness for his innocence. “Their numbers are dwindling. Treasure seekers saw to that. But they do exist.” He wasn’t sure what compelled him, maybe it was receiving Jaskier’s rapt attention for the first time in days, but he kept talking. “What people call ‘green dragons’, like the one we have here, they’re the most common. Red dragons, less so. Black dragons are the rarest.”

Quietly, Borch said, “Gold dragons are rarest.”

“For a gold dragon to exist, it would have to be the result of an accidental, unique mutation. And in my experience,” He said, decidedly looking away from Jaskier, “Mutations, they’re intentional.” He dropped his gaze to the remnants of the hirikka smoldering over the fire. “But it doesn’t matter. Mutant or myth, gold dragons met the same fate as anything too different to endure. They died out.”

“There are other ways of enduring,” said Borch, and Geralt looked up to see a gentle smile aimed his way. “If it’s legacy you’re after, it seems you’re already partly there. Your bard friend does you justice in his tales.”

Preening, Jaskier said, “Oh, thank you. I do try.”

“Though,” Borch asked with a teasing glint in his eye, “How many more epics can be written of a man who refuses to slay a dragon?”

* * *

Borch, falling, arms outstretched. Téa and Véa releasing their grip. The mist rising and obscuring them far too soon. It all replayed on a loop in his mind. Geralt sat and looked over the mountain range and thought, at least it was a beautiful place to die.

He heard Jaskier coming up behind him, tilted his head in acknowledgement, and the bard perched on the rock, inches between them that felt like miles.

A whisper. “You did your best.” Meaningless. Witchers were made to protect man. What use was one who failed. “There’s nothing else you could have done.” It changed nothing. Geralt had been too slow, too weak, too little.

The wind whistled around them. The sun sank lower towards the horizon. Jaskier licked his lips.

“Look why don’t we leave tomorrow?” He asked. Geralt understood; Jaskier had no more interest in slaying the dragon than Geralt. Without Borch, what point was there carrying on. “That is,” Jaskier added with a weak laugh, “If you’ll give me another chance to prove myself a…” His voice faltered. He swallowed. “Worthy travel companion.”

Silently, Geralt huffed, closing his eyes. Another stupid thing he’d said to needle at the bard. _Love me_ , he begged with his heart. _Leave me_ , his cursed mouth said. Anything but this continued torture of having you so close yet not having you at all.

Jaskier said. “We could head to the coast.” His voice was unlike any other time Geralt had heard it. It was softly lilting, like he was dropping his guard, letting the words spill out unchecked. “Get away for a while.” Get away. It seemed like all Geralt had been doing was running lately. What would happen if he just… stopped. Let destiny take him where it would. “Sounds like something borch would say, doesn’t it?” Jaskier laughed a little, not unkindly. “Life is too short,” He said somberly, “Do what pleases you.” Jaskier’s body was a wave of heat against his side. He smelled of lavender and saltwater tears. “While you can.”

It might be that simple. He’d merely have to turn in place and reach out his hand. He could cup Jaskier’s jaw and guide him closer. And, if he’d follow, he could kiss him as tenderly as he knew how. And maybe that might be enough.

Or it might not.

So Geralt reeled himself in and said, voice hoarse, “Composing your next song?”

“No,” Jaskier said with a soft chuckle, “I’m just, uh…” He could feel Jaskier’s gaze on the side of his face like a weighted thing. “Just trying to work out what pleases me.” And then it flickered away.

“Hm…” Geralt grunted. He sat, motionless, and waited until Jaskier sighed and stood.

“Goodnight, Geralt,” Jaskier bid him farewell. Without looking, Geralt knew he’d be bunkering down on the far edge of their campsite; the bard needed peace, not company tonight.

Geralt would have happily stayed on his rock, watching the night sky overtake the dusk, except that someone kicked him in the small of his back. He whirled around to see Yennefer standing over him.

“You’re a complete moron,” She told him seriously. Geralt glared at her and said nothing. “Didn’t you hear him? Do what pleases you. _Now_.”

“Were you,” He squinted at her, “Eavesdropping?”

Yennefer rolled her violet eyes violently. “The man basically hands you his heart on a silver platter and you grunt and let him walk off. What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking,” He began lowly, “That my life has no place for humans in it. Not Jaskier, no matter how much he might pretend otherwise, and not…” He cut himself off, but the damage was done.

“Who?” Yennefer pressed, a dark gleam in her eye. Unbidden he thought of that fateful night, the wreckage of the ballroom, Pavetta’s vomit. Yennefer reared back. “A child surprise? You… oh that’s rich. I try every method I can to have a child, and you cheat with destiny to steal one?”

“I didn’t intend to.”

“You know what, Geralt, it seems you do a lot of harm never _intending_ to.” With that dagger to his heart, Yennefer stormed off for her tent, and Geralt bled and bled alone.

* * *

“Jaskier,” He said in an undertone, laying his hand on the bard’s arm. Twitching, Jaskier turned his head towards his voice, his eyes still shut. “Jaskier.” Geralt shook him slightly, and the man awakened. Blearily, he looked around, but in the dark of night he must’ve been blind. Geralt said, “Get up,” and helped the sleep-drunk bard to his feet. He shivered, rubbing his arms; he was only wearing his undershirt, he’d used his jacket to rest his head upon.

“What’s wrong?” Jaskier asked, keeping his voice hushed, “Are we moving?”

Geralt shook his head, remembered that Jaskier couldn’t see, and said, “I need to talk to you. Come on.” He followed Jaskier’s arm down to his wrist and clasped his hand. It was the sort of touch that could be friendly. But Geralt had never been described as friendly in his life.

He used their hands to guide Jaskier away from the campsite to the other edge of the plateau. There could be no proper privacy up on the mountain, but Geralt hoped the dwarves were still deep in sleep. And there was no keeping secrets from Yennefer anyway.

“Is everything okay?” Jaskier asked with real worry. His unseeing gaze was somewhere left of Geralt’s shoulder. Glancing down at their hands, Geralt lifted them to his mouth. He pressed a soft kiss to Jaskier’s skin and heard his breathing hitch. “G-geralt?” He stammered, hardly a whisper.

“I’m sorry,” He said.

The wind whistled softly in their ears, tugging at their clothes. Nearby Geralt could hear a rodent skittering against the rock. Jaskier’s palm sweat lightly in his hold. Geralt’s abnormal heart beat faster in his chest.

Jaskier asked, “What for?”

“I’m sorry if this isn’t… If this changes things between us.”

He watched the bard bite his lip. His eyes were creased with pain. Perhaps Geralt really had read everything wrong.

“What if...” Jaskier began haltingly, “I… want things to change.”

Dizzying relief hit him in a head rush. “Then I’m sorry for not realizing sooner.” Geralt kissed Jaskier’s hand again, lingering with his nose pressed to his pulse, inhaling the scent of life.

“Can you promise me something?” Jaskier asked breathlessly, and Geralt tensed. There was very little he could give Jaskier. He asked, “In the morning, will you still feel the same?” 

Relaxing, “Yes,” Geralt pressed into his wrist.

“What about the next day?”

“Yes,” Geralt kissed his forearm through his sleeve.

“And the day after that?”

“Yes,” Geralt said into the hollow of his elbow.

“Alright,” agreed Jaskier, releasing a low sigh, “Then kiss me.”

“I am,” His lips moved over Jaskier’s firm bicep through the cotton.

Though he squirmed a little at the caress, Jaskier didn’t pull away, merely whined, “Up here.”

Abandoning his path, Geralt cupped Jaskier’s face and kissed him sweetly. He tasted of sleep, and Geralt licked into his mouth until he found his inherent taste. Moaning, Jaskier groped blindly for Geralt’s shoulders, swaying into his space. He was warm and smelled of sweat and little drool and tasted like every wish Geralt had buried in his heart. 

Breaking the kiss, Jaskier sank to his knees. His practiced fingers unerringly found Geralt’s trouser ties in the dark and pulled them loose.

“Shouldn’t we wait?” Geralt asked, although Jaskier on his knees was a gorgeous sight to behold.

The bard tipped his head back to gaze wide-eyed up at him. “Wait? Whatever for?”

“A bed, for starters.”

“Oh no, no, no, we are _so_ doing this now. Have you any idea how much I’ve dreamed of your cock? I’ve been sneaking glimpses at you bathing for years, Geralt, literal years.” Then Jaskier grinned a wild, feral grin. “Don’t go gentlemanly on me now, witcher.”

Rising to the bait, Gerat pushed on his shoulder, and the bard toppled backwards. He hit the ground with a soft _oof_ and Geralt quickly followed him down. He wedged his knee between the bard’s thighs and crept over his body to kiss him hotly. Jaskier raised his hips to rub his cock against Geralt’s leg. He moaned and Geralt swallowed the sound like the sweet burn of alcohol.

“Tell me,” Geralt demanded against Jaskier’s cheek. His hand snaked down to grasp the bard through his trousers.

Back arching, stuttering, Jaskier answered, “Ah-ah-ah, tell you what?”

Geralt fumbled with his buttons, and angrily snarled, “Your dreams, your imaginings, tell me of them.” At last his sword-roughened fingers freed Jaskier from his trousers. His cock sprang out with little coaxing. It was flushed and pulsing in his loose grip. Geralt waited, raising his eyes to Jaskier.

“Oh, for fuck’s…” Jaskier’s head hit the ground and he squeezed his eyes tightly. “Everything, I’ve pictured everything.” As a reward, Geralt stroked him once, twice, then paused. “Ah! Bastard. Alright.” With new determination, Jaskier raised himself to look Geralt square in the eye. “I want you to fuck me with your absurdly large cock. I’m sure you’ll absolutely ruin me for anyone else.” Good, Geralt thought and he began stroking Jaskier evenly. “Oh, yes… Most of the time you fuck me hard, like a, like a—”

“Animal?” Geralt supplied.

“Yes,” Jaskier said, something guilty passing across his face. “Not that you are, I just… I like it hard, and you…”

“Most times,” repeated Geralt, “What of the others.”

Truly a blush rose to his cheeks then. “You fuck me gently, like I’m some precious thing, a princess you don’t wish to bruise.” Geralt growled lowly. He had enough of princesses, he needed no reminders.

“Is that all, you want me to fuck you?” He prompted after Jaskier was silent for a moment. “I thought you had more imagination.”

“Oh witcher,” He sighed, hips rolling up with Geralt’s stroked, “You aren’t ready for all that I’ve imagined. Someday, would you let me fuck you?” Geralt hummed, neither confirming nor denying. “I’m really quite excellent at it. Would you let me open you up with my mouth? Or let me suck your cock while my fingers dance behind and stretch you? I’d take care with you. I’d ease my cock into you and fuck you slow and sweet. No matter your big, bad wolfiness, you deserve a loving fuck.” His arousal had been building at Jaskier’s filthy rambling, and Geralt’s cock throbbed within his pants. He stroked with renewed vigor and Jaskier’s thighs shook. “You like that, eh? Oh, darling…”

The endearment fell from his lips involuntarily, and Geralt lapped it up, kissing Jaskier hard. The bard shuddered again from his toes to his hair. Geralt bit down on his lower lip and tasted blood. Giving him a lick in apology, Geralt pulled back. Jaskier’s mouth was red and beautiful.

“I want you to come,” Geralt told him, feeling his cock pulse in his palm.

Jaskier’s eyes, more black than blue, fluttered shut. “Darling, darling, Geralt…” His hips rocked into Geralt’s grip, his neck lolled back, and he moaned shakily, delectably.

Geralt pulled on his cock and murmured, “Come, Jaskier,” And upon hearing his name Jaskier’s breath hitched. He groaned and came, slicking Geralt’s fist, long and drawn out, his body shaking. Geralt watched him avidly, stroking him through it. He sighed.

“Gods above,” Jaskier panted, rolling his head, “That was…” Geralt raised one brow, wondering what hyperbole would come out of the bard. Thankfully, Jaskier merely pushed himself up and kissed Geralt soundly. His hands clasped his neck and Geralt’s pulse beat feverishly against his fingers. Their lips parted and Jaskier said, “Lie down.” Shifting from his side, Geralt did as requested, and Jaskier snaked down his body.

Geralt grit his teeth. “You—”

“Don’t say anything daft like I don’t have to.” Jaskier undid his trousers and pulled out his cock. Geralt was hard and Jaskier hadn’t been wrong when he called his size absurd. Jaskier wrapped both hands around his girth and lowered his mouth to the head. His breath puffed out and Geralt tensed. “Be still, alright,” said Jaskier, his words warm and wet where they hit his skin, “This’ll be hard enough without you pushing me.” Geralt’s hands dug in the coarse dirt and he nodded.

Jaskier started slow, fitting his lips around the flushed cockhead. Geralt resisted the urge to thrust into his wet heat. He sucked and laved at his vein with his tongue. His mouth made an obscene slurping noise as he pulled back and then gamely took him deeper. He shifted, put his hands on Geralt’s hip bones, and then swallowed him down. Geralt groaned, his back arching, as Jaskier just kept taking him deeper. His throat convulsed around him but he didn’t let up. His lips traced around his shaft until he could mouth at the base. Slowly he pulled back, and Geralt felt the sharp scrape of teeth, and he grunted aloud. More gently, Jaskier eased him out until he could press a kiss at the head, and then he sucked him down again. It was delicious torture. Geralt’s nails scratched in the dirt. Pulling off with a _pop_ , Jaskier trailed his open mouth down the shaft, and Geralt teetered on the precipice when he sucked on his balls.

“Jask,” He grit out, “Jask, I’m—”

Jaskier hushed him and took him in, swallowed him down his throat and Geralt came in a blinding flash. The tension in his body snapped. Jaskier sucked his come down like a treat and licked at the head. When his cock couldn’t take any more, he tucked him back into his trousers.

He said, voice fucked raw, “You’re fucking beautiful, you know that?” Geralt couldn’t reply; shocks were still working their way down his limbs. Ungainly, he gestured for the bard to come closer, and Jaskier did without hesitation, crawling up the wicher’s body and kissing the side of his mouth. Geralt turned and kissed him properly, delving his tongue where his cock had been.

“We should go back to camp,” Geralt suggested once they parted.

“No,” Jaskier said, shifting his body so they fit side by side. He slung one arm over the witcher’s broad chest. “Sleep here.”

The allure of sleep proved too great, and Geralt succumbed with his nose in Jaskier’s hair.

* * *

In the morning, Geralt woke, his senses alerting him to something. He listened but could hear nothing. Not even birdsong. An unnatural stillness. His medallion thrummed against his chest. _Magic_.

Sometime in the night their positions had reversed, with Geralt curled protectively around Jaskier’s sleeping form. Carefully he detached himself and sat up to look around. The spell used was evident almost immediately; the dwarves were all frozen in various poses, as if caught trying to break down the camp. Their leader, Yarpin, was stuck in a wordless bellow in the direction of… Yen’s tent.

“Damn it,” He growled quietly. He glanced down at Jaskier. With one hand he casts _Axii_ with the suggestion of, “Sleep.” The bard snuffled into his hands, eyes shut, and Geralt gently got to his feet.

Yennefer’s trail was easy to follow; she reeks of lilac and gooseberries. A clear path chiseled its way down the plateau and Geralt ran as fast as he dared.

“Get back!” He heard an impossible voice call out.

Then Yennefer’s reply reached him. “You should have stayed dead.”

“Stop!” He shouted as he entered the cave. His sight adjusted quickly to the dark to see the Zerrikanian women standing proud, and alive, before Yennefer, their swords drawn. The witch was looking mutinous.

Without taking her eyes off the Zerrikanians, Yennefer barked, “Turn around, Geralt, this isn’t your fight.”

Geralt shook his head. “Yen, I can’t let you murder an intelligent being for a cure that won’t even work.”

The witch raised her chin. “He’s already dead.”

One of the warrior women corrected her. “She’s dead.”

All of a sudden there came a commotion of noise above their heads, and Geralt looked up to see the impossible. A dragon, scales glimmering gold, descended from an opening in the cavern ceiling. It landed, large and magnificent, in front of them. Geralt instinctively drew closer to Yennefer.

“Ser Witcher,” the dragon spoke in Borch’s voice, “And the sorceress. Hello again.”

* * *

“Thank you for protecting it,” said Borch, in his old man guise once more. “And thank you Yennefer of Vengerberg. I am grateful for your presence here.”

“You are welcome,” replied Yennefer with more civility than Geralt had witnessed from her. “If it is possible, I would request a boon.”

With a somber frown, Borch said, “Let me save you a lot of hurt with a little pain now. Yennefer, you will never regain your womb.” Geralt watched as Yennefer closed her eyes, her lips quivering.

After a moment to compose herself, Yennefer said, “Then will you undo this magic that has bound Geralt and I?”

Borch’s thick brows drew together. “Magic?”

Geralt added, “In Rinde. I wished for Yennefer’s happiness. Somehow we have been bound to keep meeting.”

“That is no mere magic,” declared Borch. “It is not a djinn that binds you. You are tied by destiny, for the sake of another.” Geralt couldn’t help glancing at Yen, and his gut twinged at the look of hope in her violet eyes.

He said, “I cannot sire a child.”

Borch shook his head. “I believe the child in question is already well on its way.”

The witch turned bodily towards him. “Your child surprise?” Yennefer surmised, an eager note in her voice. To the dragon, she asked, “What has that to do with me?”

“That I do not know.” Geralt grit his teeth; he shouldn’t have expected this forthcomingness to last. Borch turned his weary gaze to him. “Geralt, allow me to allay your fears: the bard will never truly be lost to you.”

His blood turned cold. “What does that mean?”

“His love will live on in verse and song.”

Furious, Geralt snapped, “You’ve allayed nothing!”

“I’m sorry,” Borch finally said, “But that is the price you pay for loving a human.”

“Shut—” Geralt cut himself off with a wordless snarl. He stood from the rock and strode off towards the mountain path.

“Geralt!” Yennefer called after him. He didn’t stop. “Geralt, if you care for me at all, listen for one moment!” On their own, his feet came to a halt, though he did not turn. He sensed Yennefer approach his stiff back. “If knowing me has meant anything to you, you will claim your child surprise. We may not know how our fates are intertwined, but I beg you, allow us to find out.”

Cintra. It loomed on the horizon like a black flag. The last thing he wanted was to return there. But he would never forget how Yennefer saved Jaskier’s life after his own disaster of a wish nearly robbed the world of him forever. So he grunted and continued storming off.

The hike up from the cavern felt long compared to the mad dash down. Geralt’s swords weighed heavy on his back. Cintra, he thought endlessly, Cintra, Cintra. When he crested the plateau, it was to find the camp deserted. No, he thought with a chill, and then he found him. Jaskier was sitting hunched on the ground, curled over his lute case, a vacant look about him.

Geralt strode quickly over, saying, “Jaskier.”

Flatly, Jaskier replied, “The conquering hero returns.” It was devoid of humor and unlike him. It drew Geralt to a stop a few feet away.

“I’ve slain no dragons,” said Geralt by way of explanation. “Borch is alive, and a gold dragon. He came here for an egg. Yennefer and I defended them from the Reavers.” Like always his words were clumsy, far clumsier than whatever Jaskier would make of his deeds.

His expression still blank, Jaskier stayed silent for a long moment. “You left me,” He said, staring off into the distance. With a creeping feeling of dread, Geralt could say nothing. Shaking his head, Jaskier scoffed, “I only asked for one thing, for you to mean it. Couldn’t you at least lie a little longer?”

He was losing his grasp on the situation. “The dragon was in danger.”

Still, Jaskier didn’t even look at him. “No, I know what happened. Yennefer was in danger so off you popped.” Then, nonsensically, he asked, “When are you going to admit you love her?”

Geralt swallowed thickly. “I don’t.”

“So not yet.” Jaskier shrugged and got smoothly to his feet. It was better, him not being so small. “We’ll give it another few years of constantly running into her before you take destiny’s hint.”

“Don’t speak to me of destiny,” Geralt snapped, his ire rising.

Yennefer. Cintra. Renfri.

He was so tired of trying to do the right thing. Failing miserably every time nonetheless.

Jaskier hitched his lute strap over his back. “Why not? You’re Geralt of fucking Rivia, destiny is wrapped around you with its red strings, and I’m—” He cut himself off and blew out a breath. “I’m done being an extra in my own life.”

“Leave then,” Geralt heard himself spit, “If you’re so unhappy then fuck off.”

“Fuck you,” Jaskier spat back. With hate and hurt in his eyes, bluer than the sky, Jaskier turned and walked away. Geralt watched helplessly as the bard trotted down from the plateau and disappeared from sight. Still the witcher stayed, frozen as if by magic, hoping against hope that he would return. But he never did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I definitely didn't edit this chapter enough, I might tweak it tomorrow. Oh well.  
> Thanks as always for the lovely and inspiring comments!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: canon-typical slurs used for sex workers.

Sweat ran in rivulets down Geralt’s back, the air thick with condensation and the stench of sex. His muscles worked autonomously in an age-old rhythm while his mind wandered. Lute callouses rasping on his hip bones, a clever mouth breathing along his cock, a soft tongue reaching out...

“ _And now I see where legends did not err_ ,” The whore said, her voice lilting melodically, as he pounded into her, “ _All the wenches want the white wolf witcher!_ ”

He came sharply, like a pulled muscle, abating his thrusts. Pleasant tingles shot through his body. Yes, it had been too long since he did this. He withdrew his cock and cast a questioning glance down.

“Should I get you off?” He offered, fully intending to put his mouth where she must desire it.

She extended one graceful arm to the washbasin in the corner. “You already did, pet. Just a cloth, if you’d be so kind.” Geralt doubted she was being truthful, but he wasn’t about to contradict her. With a nod, he rose and went to the basin. He wet the small towel there, rung it out, and returned to her side. Feeling he still owed her nonetheless, he gently swiped the cloth over her lips. She moaned softly and squirmed into his touch.

“What was that you said?” Geralt asked, stroking her with careful precision.

“What, pet?”

“Right before I came, you… sang.”

The whore grinned at the ceiling. “I thought you’d like that. T’wasn’t hard to guess the bard wrote it for you.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, the name weighing heavy on his tongue. He stopped cleaning her and tossed the towel to the side.

She sat up, her kohl-rimmed eyes twinkling at him. “That’s the one.”

In spite of himself, he asked, “How does it go?”

She stuck out her lower lip in thought. “I actually don’t know it all. I picked it up from a few of the other girls. It’s a bawdy one, that’s for sure, not for reputable folk, just the brothel circuit. I know it starts with hardened breasts and a pert dimpled ass.” She raised her brows meaningfully and glanced at him. “Can’t say he lied about that. Then there’s something about roses. _You set my flesh upright, with nocturnal eyes and well-traveled thighs._ Something something, arrows and stars, I think, then... _Strip me naked so that we might match, though my skin does quiver where you stand hard. Seek to bind us with love lest we detach, passion soaked yields your oft beloved bard_ …” She grinned again, giddy, and added, “That’s the good bit. Sounds like you gave the lad quite the tumble. Oh, and then the thing about legends and wenches wanting the white... wolf... witcher.” She pulled a face. “Tongue-twister there at the end.”

Geralt breathed heavily out his nose. “And he sang this?”

She shrugged. “How else do stories get around?”

“Right,” Geralt said, reaching for his trousers. Her hand on his wrist halted him. He turned his head and peered at her.

“Oh,” She said, slow and gentle, “I didn’t realize. They say witchers can’t feel.”

Geralt agreed, “So they say.” The woman bit her lip, eyes wide and contrite.

“Look, if it’s a man you wanted, I could—”

“You were perfect,” Geralt assured her. In a soothing gesture he would use on Roach, he ran his hand down her arm. “I needed to forget. Thank you.” He wasn’t naive enough to kiss her. She nodded, and that was that.

* * *

Cintra falls.

* * *

Brown, cropped hair, doe eyes, skin white as snow.

_The girl in the woods will be with you always._

Straight red hair, his old eyes, unnatural youth.

_People linked by destiny will always find each other_

Robin’s egg eyes, a razor-thin smile, a song on the wind.

“Geralt of Rivia, you unlucky bastard.”

He blinked and the vision sharpened.

“You found me,” Geralt croaked, lifting his head.

“I always find you,” Jaskier replied. Methodically he pierced a needle into Geralt’s leg. He could hardly feel the limb at all. That was probably bad. “Can’t be rid of me that easy, right? Think I’ll cut and run after one tiff? Nah, you’re stuck with me.”

His entire body was heavy with fatigue, but Geralt pushed himself up on his elbows. He drank in the sight of Jaskier, his emerald doublet and trousers washed out by the firelight, the bard’s gaze fixed determinedly on his work.

Dizzy with emotion (or maybe just dizzy), Geralt wet his lips. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“What,” asked Jaskier without looking up, “Fucked me? Or mind-whamied me and left?”

“I knew you wouldn’t be safe. Humans can’t be safe with me.”

“I seem to have done a fine job staying alive so far.”

Blinking slowly, Geralt said, “There was a girl.” Jaskier tied off the stitches and looked at him. His breath staggered at that look; it felt like failing a test, like Vesemir’s quiet disappointment, or maybe a shadow of watching a cart disappear down a road. Geralt continued, haltingly, “A princess. She was being hunted, by men. I didn’t want to get involved. But I did, I fucked her, and the next day… I tried to do the right thing. But I have no fucking idea what that is. And I… I think I chose the wrong side. Or… I didn’t choose fast enough. I don’t know.”

After a moment’s pause, probably unsure if he had more to say, Jaskier cocked his head. “Do you know that is the most you’ve said to me that wasn’t about monsters?” Geralt turned his aching head, searching for his swords. They weren’t at his back. What good was a witcher without his swords?

“Her broach,” He explained, abandoning the search, “I kept it, affixed it to my hilt.”

With sympathy he didn’t deserve, Jaskier asked, “To remember her by?”

“Remember that the affairs of men are not mine.” His hands were shaking and he clenched them. How much blood had he lost? “I’m not human, and humans aren’t mine to…”

“Aren’t yours to love?” Jaskier supplied. Geralt didn’t say anything. “What if we choose you? What if humans need you, desperately? What if humans could love you? Would you still keep us at a distance? Why do you take away _our_ choice?”

“I can’t keep you,” Geralt said, shaking his head, “So what right do I have to claim what little time you have?”

Jaskier sat back, placing his hands on his knees. He looked at Geralt challengingly. “And what if I claim you? What if I thought you were worth all the time I have left? Would you let me keep you?”

The woods were fogging at the edges of his vision. “What if,” Geralt blearily repeated, “What if, what if…”

“Eh?” A gruff voice rang out, lancing pain through his head. Blinding sunlight overtook the firelight. Aches returned to his limbs as his body was jostled mercilessly. “What’s that yer mumbling back there?”

“Jask… Jasker… Jaskier…”

“Wait a mo’, I know that name. That’s that bard, innit? Ach, I should’ve known, you’re the witcher, he’s the humble bard. Don’t worry, we’ll get you fixed up and back on the road in no time. What’s that catchy one? _Oh fishmonger, oh fishmonger…_ ”

* * *

The girl in the woods, he thought as he pressed his nose to her hair, Lion Cub of Cintra, his child surprise. It was right, holding her, he felt it with a certainty he never had before. This was the right thing he’d been struggling to discover all this time.

It was astounding how quickly love bloomed in his breast for her.

They supped with the trader and his wife. At first the woman distrusted him, in spite of Cirilla’s ease, but the trader told her, “He saved my life and claimed only the Law of Surprise in return. By my reckoning that makes the girl twice bound to him.”

“Not bound,” said Geralt; he didn’t want any more women trapped by his will. Looking to Cirilla’s round trusting eyes, he said, “Pledged, perhaps.”

With dawning understanding, the wife said, “There can be no fighting the pull of destiny that strong.” Where once Geralt would have grimaced, then he looked at Cirilla and thought, good.

“You can call me Ciri,” said the young princess, once they set out on the road north. Geralt grunted in reply. It was hard enough thinking of her as other than the child surprise. She looked so much like her mother.

There were few paths available to them, except to walk. When Ciri inquired as to their destination, he told her, “Kaer Morhen. The witcher fortress. Witchers are neutral in all squabbles of man. Nilfgaard cannot follow you there.”

She asked, “What’s stopping them?”

“Me,” He answered, “And my order.”

Without a horse (and he dearly missed Roach, but there would be other mares) their pace was slow. They were easy prey for bandits, the number of which had surged following the recent battles, and Geralt cut down each man that threatened Ciri. Only once had the fight turned to the enemy’s favor, as a man bashed Geralt’s head into a rock wall and he saw stars, until Ciri let out a shrill scream and his attackers were pushed by an unnatural wind. Geralt fought the force propelling him to clasp the young girl in his arms.

“It’s alright,” He soothed her mindlessly, “You did it, we’re safe now.”

Thus he discovered that his charge had inherited Pavetta’s power.

They made it to the border of Redania and Kaedwen after weeks of pushing themselves at full tilt, only stopping at night so Cirilla could sleep while Geralt kept watch. The lack of sleep should have been nothing to a witcher, but shamefully Geralt felt the strain building. And so, he made the decision to brave a town in search of an inn. They strode into a small village, matching hoods pulled over their distinctive hair, with Geralt keeping one arm around the young girl’s shoulders. They gravitated towards the center of town where a long building was marked with a hanging sign. The atmosphere wasn’t lively, but as they entered they heard muffled voices and light music and laughter.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” A young woman’s voice warbled, the melody smoothly changing, “You knew who I was with every step that I ran to you...”

A jolt, like an arrow piercing his armor, goes through his heart. He’d heard this tune before, whistled jauntily beside Roach, but never the words. It felt like a perversion to hear them now in a stranger’s voice. Yet something ugly kept him rooted to the spot.

Ciri stilled beside him and lay her slender hand on his arm. “Geralt, what is it?”

“This song,” He told her lowly, raptly watching the blonde bard perform, “It’s… it’s nothing.”

“We’re not in danger?” She asked with a concealed note of fear. He shook the mood off like a cloak and forced a smile for her.

“No. I was just remembering someone.”

After a quick exchange with the innkeeper, he found them a small table off to the side. Geralt leaned back as the princess peered around the room. The bard was dressed in cheery pinks and red, her long blonde hair topped with a jaunty hat. She stood, strumming her lute, near the center of the tavern. She seemed to delight in the attention of those patrons not too drunk to listen.

> “And so I fall in love just a little, oh, a little bit  
> Everyday with someone new  
> I fall in love just a little, oh, a little bit  
> Everyday with someone new!”

“Oh,” Cirilla said, as if she could understand, “Someone special to you?”

Geralt swallowed and looked away from her eyes, not quite deep blue like Jaskier’s, more like a pond iced over. “Yes.”

“What happened to them?”

Their conversation paused as a barmaid delivered them two bowls of stew. Geralt ate in lieu of answering and Ciri grudgingly followed his lead. The bard played on.

> “Would things be easier if there was a right way?  
> Honey, there is no right way...”

The young woman winked at one of her audience members before launching into the chorus once more. She sang the words so joyfully. Did Jaskier feel as joyful wherever he was? Was he finding a new love by the day like his song claimed? A spiteful voice in his head told him _yes, he’s getting fucked by everyone but you and loving it._ Yet the memory of that night on the mountaintop, his breathless sighs, his request for fidelity, and his hurt when he thought Geralt abandoned him… It told him that he’d broken something more precious than the fleeting love Jaskier felt for every kind word and pretty face.

After far too long... “We parted ways,” Geralt said simply, “I haven’t seen him since.”

“Should we look for him?” Her voice was tentative, and he grit his teeth against the hope that churned in his gut. 

“The most important thing is getting you to Kaer Morhen. Everything else has to wait.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song is Someone New by Hozier.
> 
> Sorry this one took so long. I wasn't intending to just post this, I meant to have the Jaskier reunion in this chapter as well, but... I've been so anxious what with this global pandemic and it's really sapped a lot of my creative energy. That said, we all need art in this stressful time, so I want to share what I have with you, even if it's not my best work. Oh well.
> 
> I hope all of you are doing well and we make it out of this scary situation soon.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mentions of torture

_Geralt!_

_I’ve got him!_

_Geralt, he’s hurt!_

_We both are, actually._

_He’s in no fit state but… I think I can…_

_I don’t know where you are. I don’t even know if you can hear me. How can I find you?_

_What’s that?_

_Oh, of course, where else would a witcher lick his wounds._

_Yes, us too._

_Okay. I’ve never been there but I should be able to… Yes!_

_See you soon, Geralt._

He blinked out of sleep, disoriented for many reasons: he’s in a bed rather than outside; the light streaming through the window indicates it’s late in the day; there was a voice echoing in his mind, like a figment of a dream, the words themselves slipping like water through his fingers. Geralt turned his head and blearily caught sight of Ciri, perched on the opposite bed of their small room. The young girl smiled faintly at him.

“You seemed like you needed the rest,” She said by way of explanation. Still fuzzy from sleep, he swiped his hand over his face, dragging down his jaw.

“What time is it?”

Ciri shook her head, blonde waves bouncing lightly. “Don’t worry about it. I already paid for another night.” His brows drew together. “With the coin in your boot.”

“That was for an emergency.”

“Geralt,” She said, with a stern tone, as if their ages were reversed, “You’ve been dead on your feet for days. I know you’ve been worried about me, but…” She paused, biting her lip and looking unsure.

Geralt let his head loll back onto the pillow, goose down far too plush. “You’re right,” He declared, “I’m no good to you like that.”

The princess huffed. “ _I meant_ … I worry about you too.” Geralt blinked at the ceiling. His heart gave an off-beat thump. Oh. “Just,” Ciri rushed, “Sometimes you need to take care of yourself, too. I know it’ll get easier when we get to Kaer Morhen, but until then, we have to look out for each other, and—”

“Thank you,” Geralt interrupted her gently, and her mouth shut with a click. “I’ve never been very good at…” His words failed him and he frowned. With one hand, he gestured between the two of them.

Ciri supplied, “People?”

“More like…” How would Jaskier phrase it? “Letting someone in.” Her ice-pale eyes were kind as she nodded. “I’ll try to do better.”

“Honestly, you’re doing fine. Or maybe I’m no better. I’ve realized,” A shadow passed over her face, “How little I actually knew those around me back home. Like Grandmother. Or the urchins I used to play bones with. Or…” She stared off into the distance, and it was a coincidence that she faced south. “There was a kitchen girl my age. She was always gossiping about boys and I found her a bit dim. But now… I can’t remember her name. Isn’t that sad?”

Geralt extended his arm so his hand hung off the side. Ciri got up and crossed the narrow room to kneel on the floor. Leaning her back against the bed frame, she took his hand, turning it over in her smooth palms. He couldn’t see her face but he heard the hitches in her breath and scented saltwater.

She held his hand for a long time, sitting there on the floor, and eventually she croaked, “Sleep, Geralt,” and he did his best to follow her command.

* * *

When he saw the peaks of the Blue Mountains breaking through the horizon, Geralt’s heart eased as he lay down a burden he hadn’t realized he carried. Although, as he warned Ciri, the road to the fortress was a Trial in and of itself, Geralt knew their long journey was nearly over. As he had done countless winters before, Geralt made the trek up the mountain, Ciri close by his side. Thankfully, wyverns and other creatures were scarce, and they avoided what fights they could. The walls loomed high, and he felt Ciri’s unease grow as they drew nearer.

“What is it?” He asked her when they were a stone’s throw from the gate (well, Geralt’s throw, in any case). She startled like a doe at the question. Her hands tumbled over each other anxiously and he noted that her nails were bitten down.

“I… I don’t know…” She stuttered, her gaze sliding away from him. “It’s… It’s just that… I was told to find you, and I did, and we came here together… but I don’t know what comes next.”

Geralt stopped and knelt in the dirt. He gestured for her to come closer, and she did, stepping into his space. Geralt rested his hands on her shoulders. He looked into her fearful eyes.

“No matter what comes next, I can make you three promises. One, I will be with you. Two, I will do everything in my power to protect you. Three, I will…” But his voice broke. He cleared his throat and tried again. “You will be loved. Alright?” Their eyes locked, Ciri took a deep breath. After holding it for a moment, she breathed out, and nodded. He stood and they carried on, Ciri one step ahead so he could keep his hand on her back.

The gate was open; witchers could come and go as they pleased. The courtyard was empty, though he spied two horses in the stable. Someone was here, at least, even if it was only Vesemir.

As they went up the steps to the great fortress, a voice carried to them. It rang out from above, shouting, “He’s here!” Geralt looked up. A mop of black hair over a scarred face was sticking out a window.

Geralt cupped his hand around his mouth and called, “Eskel!”

The witcher peered down at them. “Who’s the welp?” Asked Eskel.

“A princess,” Geralt answered, irritated, “And a child surprise. Long story.”

The large wooden door creaked open and from within came another familiar voice. “Get in, then,” Vesemir’s tone was like a whetstone, soothing Geralt’s raised hackles. He quickened his pace up the steps to see the older witcher staring down at them. There was something kind about his eyes, but then again, Geralt always thought so. His swords were across his back like he was waiting for a fight. “Geralt,” He greeted, merely a touch warm, “You’ve got visitors.”

Geralt halted his advance; Ciri stopped with him. He asked, “What?”

“Four days ago,” explained Vesemir evenly, “A portal opened up in our courtyard. A raven-haired witch strode out all but dragging a man with her. They were both in rough shape, but the witch managed to say your name before passing out.”

“Yennefer,” He said, fear gripping him, “She’s here. Is she alright?”

“Oh yes, she’s recovering swiftly, it’s her friend that’s given us the most trouble.”

“Another sorcerer?” The rumors of Sodden Hill had reached his ears along their travels. It was said many mages gave a valiant last stand that finally drove the Nilfgaardians back. He should have supposed Yennefer would take part, for pride if anything.

But Vesemir shook his head. “A dandy, more like.”

Geralt’s blood seemed to freeze in his veins. “No,” He said. He looked for a lie in Vesemir’s face, but, of course, he found only faint sympathy. Swallowing a sudden sting of bile, he said, “Take me to him.”

With a curt nod, Vesemir turned his back and Geralt and Ciri followed him inside the fortress. The entrance was grand, and he noted Ciri’s neck crane to see the high ceilings. Their footsteps on the tile floor echoed immensely. Geralt found they were following the path to a tower, his tower, where his lodgings had always been. At the foot of the cylindrical stairs, Vesemir paused.

“You go on ahead,” he told them, “I’ll be in the kitchens. You must be starving, eh?”

Food meant little for Geralt then, but for Ciri’s sake he thanked his old master. The two climbed the stairs together, her body drawn close to his side, his arm around her shoulders.

Ciri asked, “It’s him, isn’t it?” But Geralt could not answer.

He pushed open the door to his room without knocking. The lodging inside was exactly the same as he remembered it: the circular room divided by thin fabric screens, the light streaming from the balcony, the bookshelves of monster lore, and the bed with its hanging curtains parted. And lying in the bed, sheets pulled up to his neck, was Jaskier. Geralt’s knees all but buckled underneath him, and Ciri let out an _oof_ as she bore some of his weight. What he could see of the bard’s face was deathly pale, with dark circles around his eyes, and his hair matted with sweat to his forehead. The young princess guided him, unthinking, towards the bedside, and Geralt stared down at his friend.

“There you are,” came another familiar voice, and only Geralt’s quick reflexes held him still. He had been so focuses on Jaskier that he did not notice the wooden bathtub was full and steaming. He turned and saw Yennefer, nude, reclining and watching him. She seemed unimpressed. “You took your time, didn’t you?”

“Yennefer,” He greeted her, partly for Ciri’s benefit (the young girl was staring at the witch as though she’d never seen a naked woman before), “What happened?”

“Straight in? Can’t even bother with pleasantries, Geralt?” She fixed her lavender gaze on Ciri. “Is this the child?” Geralt nodded. “Why you’re… how old are you, sweetling?”

“Thirteen,” Ciri answered, her voice wavering.

Yennefer’s breath punched out of her. “Thirteen years, Geralt. I will never understand you.”

“She wasn’t mine to take,” He protested, “And you didn’t answer my question. What. Happened.”

“It’s a very long story, and one I shouldn’t like to repeat unnecessarily. Your master has been asking as well, and I’d prefer if you convey the story to him. Alright?” Again, Geralt nodded. Yennefer skimmed her fingers over the bath water and fresh steam rose from it. “I broke all the rules at Sodden. I tapped into power I hadn’t been aware of. There was a time, I don’t know how long, but I seemed without a body, floating, buffeted by chaos. When I returned, the battle was over, my sisters were either dead or missing, and the enemy was nowhere to be found. But I…” She looked away. “There was a mage with Nilfgaard, Fringilla. She was my sister once. I knew, if I could, I had to track her down. I followed traces of her magic to a prison camp. And there, I found Jaskier.” All of their gazes seemed drawn to the bed. Jaskier’s chest rose evenly beneath the sheet. “I can’t say how long they had him. He was starved and beaten and interrogated, though for what purpose, I do not know. I only knew I had to free him, or you’d never forgive me.”

Geralt looked at her again. “I’m in your debt again.”

Seeming tired, Yennefer shook her head, hair swirling in the water. “I’m done collecting debts for the time being. Your master was kind to take me in. I will consider myself blessed to be a friend of the witchers.”

“You are,” He told her seriously, “A friend.”

“I’m sorry,” young Ciri piped up from beside him, “But is there a reason you have to be naked?”

The corner of her mouth flicked up. “There is. My body temperature has been fluctuating wildly. I believe it to be a side-effect of unleashing my chaos. So until I stabilize, it’s best if I remain in a hot bath.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry—”

“She’s lying,” Geralt interrupted Ciri’s apology. “She’s just being dramatic.”

Yennefer pouted at him. “Don’t give away all my secrets, Geralt. But… very well.” She stood, the water sloughing off her body, and Ciri squeaked and covered her eyes. Yennefer watched him with a playful challenge, and he kept his eyes locked on hers to match it, as she shrugged into a silk robe. “Better, sweetling?” She asked, cinching it.

Hesitantly, Ciri lowered her hands. She blinked at the witch and said, “My name is Ciri, by the way.”

He could practically see Yennefer’s heart melt. “Well, Ciri, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” Glancing at Geralt, she said, “Why don’t I take you downstairs for a moment? Have you seen the grounds? They’re quite magnificent, in spite of their state of disrepair.”

“Vesemir said he’d make food,” added Geralt, and Ciri’s eyes glazed a little.

“Excellent. I’m so hungry I could eat a griffon, how about you?” Ciri made a mumble of assent, and Yennefer extended her hand. For a suspended moment, she stood there reaching out, hope and fear in her face, and then Ciri took her hand and the world moved on. “Come on then, sweetling,” Yennefer murmured, leading her back towards the stairs, “Let’s go find Uncle Vesemir.”

As soon as the door closed behind them, Geralt felt a wave of gratitude flood him. He was so incredibly grateful that Yennefer could read him. He lay down his swords and doffed his armor quickly. When he stood in his sweat-stained shirt and dirt-worn trousers, he moved to Jaskier’s side.

Tentatively, he pressed his fingers to the side of Jaskier’s neck. His heart beat steadily and softly beneath the skin. Tension slipped from his shoulders. His hand moved to cup Jaskier’s jaw. Stubble scratched his palm. His skin was clammy, a little cold. Geralt made a decision and shucked the rest of his clothes. He lifted the sheet and slid in to rest along Jaskier’s side. With minimal effort, he pulled the bard’s pliant body to rest against his. Jaskier’s greasy hair brushed Geralt’s chin and he raised his hand to pet the bard’s head. He smoothed the hair back from his face, looking down at the dark circles framing Jaskier’s long lashes.

Longing swelled in his heart and Geralt breathed the pain out. He would recover. Geralt could accept nothing else.

* * *

Yennefer kept Ciri occupied for most of the day and Geralt found he did not fret over her whereabouts. Vesemir came some time later bearing two bowls of stew. He handed one to Geralt, who drank from it greedily, and placed the other on a nearby table.

“For whenever he wakes,” said Vesemir. “He’ll need his strength.”

“Thank you,” Geralt rasped lowly. “Not just for him. For all of them.”

Vesemir let out a sigh, eyeing Geralt in the bed cradling his friend. “I always knew you weren’t built to be a lone wolf.” A deep shame bubbled in his gut. Reading him correctly, his old master said, “That ain’t a bad thing, boy. It’s just the truth of it.” He stepped nearer and gave Geralt’s shoulder a firm pat. “Rest up. Your pack can take care of itself for now.” Then he left, and Geralt’s mind turned over the exchange for hours.

The sun set and the moon rose and Jaskier didn’t stir. The candles burned down to the base and Ciri returned alone, her mood bright as she all but skipped into the room. Without hesitation, she sat on the edge of the bed looking down at him. Geralt wondered if he should be embarrassed to be holding Jaskier so tenderly. There was no judgement in Ciri’s curious gaze.

She asked, “How is he?”

Grunting, Geralt shifted in the bed, lifting the sheet. Ciri scampered to climb in, fully clothed in her peasant dress; Yennefer would have to get the girl new clothes. She burrowed into his side and rested her head on his arm, peering up at him.

“How do you like Kaer Morhen?” Geralt asked her, voice soft.

“It’s big,” Ciri answered, “And empty. I thought there’d be more witchers here.”

“We lost the means to induct new witchers years ago. We are a dying breed.” In sympathy, Ciri nuzzled her cheek against his chest. “There will be more witchers here in the winter. Vesemir is the only one of us who remains year round. He’s the caretaker of the fortress.”

“I like him, he reminds me of Mousesack.”

“Did he ever tell you about me?”

She repeated, “Mousesack? No. You knew each other?”

“Oh yes, for many years.” Coaxed by her inquisitive stare, the story poured out of him. He spoke of his meeting the druid as a young man and the slaughter of the Wolf School. He mentioned meeting the man again at Pavetta’s betrothal, fighting by his side to protect Duny, and the words of portent Mousesack left him with. “He knew he had to stay in Cintra. He would defend you and teach you should you inherit your mother’s power.”

Quietly, she said, “It came too late. I think… I think he’s dead.”

He pulled her closer and shushed her as he heard her sniffling. “He served you well, princess. He’d be happy to know you’re safe. You are safe. You are safe. You are safe.” Her slender body shuddered with sobs. Geralt kept repeating the phrase as she cried. Eventually her body stilled as she wept herself to sleep. He kept her close as he stared up at the bed canopy.

Hours passed, and Ciri turned in her sleep, and Geralt kept himself still as he was bracketed by the two sleeping humans. Jaskier’s skin grew progressively warmer as it soaked up his body heat. His breath was a steady in and out. Geralt was so attuned to the humans’ rhythms that he felt the instant Jaskier began to wake. His fingers twitched, his nose brushing Geralt’s neck, and his breathing picked up speed.

Gently, so as not to startle, Geralt murmured, “Jaskier.” The bard’s body tensed. “Jaskier, it’s alright.” He doubted his voice was soothing, yet slowly his muscles seemed to relax, his body melting into Geralt’s.

“Mm,” the bard hummed, tipping back his head. His sleep-glazed eyes were unnaturally blue compared to the pallor of his cheeks. “Geralt.”

“Yes, it’s me,” He said, “You’re safe.”

His eyelids fell shut, and he sighed out, “Of course I am.” For a moment, it seemed he slipped back to sleep, and Geralt waited anxiously, but then he woke again. Blearily, he asked, “Where are you?”

Thinking him confused, he answered, “We’re at Kaer Morhen. You, me, Yennefer, and Ciri. We’re together.”

“Ciri,” Jaskier repeated, lifting his head a little. He must have caught sight of the blonde head of hair on the other side of the bed because he huffed out, “Wow. You found her, then?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Jaskier sank back into the bed as though his energy had left him. “Oh Geralt,” He said on a breath, “You’re going to kill me.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You will. I deserve it.” Perhaps he was unaware of it, but his finger was tracing absent shapes near Geralt’s nipple. His gaze downcast, Jaskier said, “I told them about you. They were after the princess, they knew I played Cintra’s court often, they wanted everything I knew, and… and I…”

“You were tortured,” said Geralt.

Jaskier made a disgruntled sound. “Yeah, well, I’m sure you wouldn’t have cracked.”

Geralt shook his head. “I’m glad you told them. I’m glad they didn’t kill you.”

“Nilfgaard won’t stop hunting her. They’re maniacal. There's something about her, something they want, and I’m, oh Geralt, I’m so sorry, I’m so, so—”

“Hush,” Geralt pulled him closer, and Jaskier’s mouth was muffled against his neck. “I am,” the words he needed to say were choked within his throat, “Jaskier, I am—”

“Alright,” Jaskier whispered, and Geralt shivered at the words hitting his skin, “No more apologies tonight. Only sleep.”

“You need to eat. I have cold stew.”

“Enticing, but I’ll pass. I’m too tired.”

“ _Jaskier_.”

“In the morning, darling. I’ll eat in the morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the comments. I refresh my email nearly all the time waiting to read your sweet comments. I'm not sure how much more of this story there is to tell, but I enjoy writing it. We'll see how many chapters I've got left in me.
> 
> Stay safe out there ♥️


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: mentions of torture, non-con discussed

Jaskier healed slowly. Humans were like that.

After that first night, Geralt brought up furs to lay out on the floor. He didn’t want to impose himself on a sick man. Jaskier didn’t say a word about it when he saw Geralt bed down, and he hadn’t brought it up since. Vesemir fixed Ciri up with a room of her own, and Yennefer, in a tower removed from the others, an old man’s sense of propriety.

Really, if he were a good man, he’d ask Vesemir to prepare a spare room for him as well, let Jaskier keep his own. But he was selfish, and he wanted to fall asleep with Jaskier’s scent in his nose and his breathing in his ear.

It took some time for him to eat properly. The first morning he awoke he drank the stew Geralt coaxed him with only to vomit it up later. Vesemir had to water it down and told him to sip slowly, and that seemed to work. Solid food took a week to keep down.

The bard was terribly thin, his ribs and collar bone visible when he sat up, but his skin was losing its pallor. Bruises, of which there were too many, faded to a sickly yellow-green. The exhaustion seeped from his face bit by bit. Geralt stoked the fire constantly to keep him warm and brought up hot water for his baths. Short of laying with him again, it was all he could do.

He knew he was lingering in Jaskier’s space, but the bard didn’t mention it. After the second week, Vesemir put him to work. 

“The lad won’t get any worse,” the gruff old man told him as he steered him down the stairs, “But the outer fortifications might.” He didn’t say it, but Geralt knew he was thinking of Nilfgaard. They were a dark cloud over their heads. Kaer Morhen hadn’t been battle-ready in centuries. So Geralt and Eskel spent their days patching crumbling holes in the walls. They toiled in companionable silence for the most part.

One exception… “Is he the bard that wrote Toss a Coin?” Eskel asked one day as they were pulling weeds from the courtyard.

Geralt sat up to look at him, unsure what reception his answer would bring. “Yes.”

Eskel nodded, seemingly to himself. “I may not be the famous white wolf, but whenever I stop by a tavern, and someone’s playing that god awful song, I leave with my pockets a little heavier.”

“Hm,” Geralt grunted in response. He went on with his work, as did Eskel. That was that.

Of everything he had on his mind, the last thing he worried about was how Ciri was faring. Between Yennefer and Vesemir, the young princess had her days regimented with training. Yennefer was, in spite of her bravado, not in peak condition. Instead of rigorously exploring Ciri’s magical prowess, Ciri relayed to him that they spent most of their time meditating. Geralt could understand Yen’s logic: the girl was in a volatile emotional state to begin with, better to train her to master her emotions first. He caught glimpses of Ciri throughout the days, either in the yard with Vesemir hitting the dummies, or sitting in quiet contemplation with Yennefer, and at meal time she sat with him and chattered about her studies. He listened fondly, glad to hear her mood bright, reminiscent of when the keep was filled with young recruits.

One night Geralt returned to his room and paused on the landing. Through the door he could hear the timbre of a lute. Deep sonorous hums reverberated in the air. Geralt sighed, resting his head on the door. The song was slow, mournful, with an insistent beat. He pricked up his ears to listen to the words.

> “Flowers, flowers grow  
>  Where I'm laid... to rest  
>  Honey pick a blossom  
>  And hold it, hold it to your breast.
> 
> “Honey you know, that's my love  
>  Bursting loud... from inside  
>  My love, oh my love, my love  
>  Will never die…”

“It’s very sad,” Ciri’s voice came through the door. Suddenly he could picture the two sitting by the fire, Jaskier’s lute in his lap, Ciri rapturously watching the famous bard.

He heard Jaskier reply, “Not really. Love doesn’t end when our time on this sphere is over. I find that comforting.”

“Is it true,” she asked with a grown woman’s cynicism, “Or is it something to tell children?”

“Oh believe me, Ciri, it’s all too true. Some love lasts forever. Your mother’s love, your grandmother’s, your grandfather’s, there is no force that can break that bond.”

“What about my bond with Geralt?”

“It works the same. You and he are already so comfortable with each other, aren’t you?” There was a pause. “I imagine Geralt loved you before he met you. Parents are like that. Well, they’re meant to be, in any case. My father was a bit of a bastard. Er, don’t repeat that word.”

“I don’t have any memories of my real parents. But Geralt is…”

He couldn’t bear to hear anymore. There was a stinging in his eyes. Geralt silently descended the stairs, leaving the two to their chat. He could see if Vesemir needed any help in the kitchen.

* * *

The next morning Geralt came awake to birdsong. No, that wasn’t it, he realized as sleep left him. It was the plucking of lute strings done very softly. It was a melody he recognized, the mournful song he’d sang to Ciri the night before.

“Beautiful,” He murmured aloud, and the notes came to a halt.

“Sorry,” said Jaskier in a hush, “I didn’t mean to wake you. I was just working something out.”

Geralt turned onto his side, the fur slipping down his back. He lifted his head to rest on his arm so he could see the bard atop the bed. The dim light from the balcony said it was early, very early. Jaskier was looking better, his cheeks flushed with color, his fingers relaxed over the strings. His nightshirt hung open at the collar to reveal his ample chest hair. His hair was curling slightly at the ends, over his ears, it would need a trim soon.

Giving in to a dangerous whim, Geralt asked, “Play something for me?”

Jaskier stared at him. He cleared his throat. Adjusting his grip on the lute, he asked, “Any requests?”

The corner of his mouth twitching, he said, “How about the one you save for brothels?”

Letting out a titter of laughter, Jaskier looked away. “I’ve a few colorful feathers in my plumage, you’ll have to be more specific. I could do the one about the one-legged Skellige? Or the miller and the maiden?”

The morning’s darkness made him brave. “The white wolf witcher,” Geralt said and the bard’s face grew troubled.

“Don’t ask that of me,” said Jaskier, sounding maudlin and unlike himself. “Don’t be cruel.”

Devoid of humor, Geralt said, “I’m not. Or… I don’t mean to be.”

“Are we talking about this?” Jaskier asked, with a strange unidentifiable tone.

Geralt sat up fully, the fur pooling around his waist. He felt oddly vulnerable in his nakedness, yet also too prideful to admit such, so he bore the flicked glances down at his chest. He leveled his gaze at the bard and kept it steady.

He said, “I’m not good at talking.”

Jaskier’s eyes kept darting south of his chin, though he seemed pained. “Well, we can’t just fuck again. That was miserable.”

He couldn’t help flinching. “Miserable?” He repeated in question.

“Not the...” Jaskier let out a huff. “Honestly, as if you need to be fishing for compliments. You’re quite good in bed, or rather a field or rocky plateau, as it were. It’s the brushing it off like nothing happened that I can’t stand. You wouldn’t know what it feels like, but, trust me, it’s not good.”

Before he could stop himself, he said, “You’ve done the same.”

Agape, Jaskier sputtered, “When have I—If I did act unaffected I was merely following your lead.”

“You fuck people all the time, how am I to know if—” Geralt cut himself off, yet Jaskier was like a hound on a trail.

“If what? If what, Geralt?” Geralt shifted, his shoulders coming up defensively, to face the wall. “Oh _fuck you!_ ” Burst from Jaskier, suddenly incensed. “As if you don’t know! I’ve sung it a thousand times, I’ve said it a thousand ways!”

It was easier to speak to his own clasped hands. “Then tell me again,” He requested softly, “One more time. I’ll listen.”

From behind him, Jaskier sighed harshly. A moment passed. Had he asked too much. Then, there came the plucking of an opening tune, jaunty and a touch sensual. It lifted Geralt’s face and drew him like a sunflower to… well…

Then he sang.

> “Undo that hardened breastplate which you wear,  
>  And let your vestments fall to the soft grass,  
>  So I may see the moonlight catch your hair,  
>  And trail down scarred back and pert dimpled ass,
> 
> “As rosebuds dew, you set my flesh upright,  
>  With nocturnal eyes and well-traveled thighs,  
>  Pin me with an arrow of such swift delight,  
>  Carry light my cries across starred skies,
> 
> “Darling, strip me naked so we might match,  
>  Though my skin does quiver where you stand hard,  
>  Seek to bind us with love lest we detach,  
>  Passion soaked yields your oft beloved bard,
> 
> “My love, I see where legends did not err:  
>  All the wenches want the white wolf witcher!”

The last few notes echoed through the room. Geralt couldn’t stop staring. He was beautiful in the faint blue light. He might be thin, his skin pale and faintly yellow-mottled, his hair hanging limply over his eyes, but Geralt would swear he’d never seen a more beautiful man.

Jaskier exhaled out his nose. “Just get out, alright?” He said. “Leave me a little dignity.” 

The furs slipped as Geralt stood, nude as the day he was born, and took a step toward the bed. In an instant the bard reared back and Geralt uncertainly stopped. He scented the air but didn’t catch the acrid smell of fear. There was Jaskier’s sweat, musky with sleep, but no real fear. 

Quietly Geralt asked, “Do you really want me to go?”

“I really,” He began strongly, then faltered. His gaze caught on Geralt’s chest, then took a slow meander down to his legs. Good, Geralt thought, pushing back his shoulders, at least he had his interest. Finally daring to look at his stirring cock, Jaskier let out a wistful sort of sigh. “No, of course I don’t,” He admitted, an embarrassed smile forming on his lips, “But you know that now.”

Emboldened, Geralt took another step, glad when Jaskier stayed still. “Why did you say I’m in love with Yennefer?” He asked.

“Aren’t you?” The bard retorted. Before Geralt could answer, he went on, “I suppose you just look good together. One can certainly understand why you’d be attracted to her. And you cannot deny that you treat her differently. You harbor affection for the witch that I simply can’t understand.”

She saved you, Geralt thought but did not say.

Instead, he said, “You’re right. I might have loved her,” Here the words struggled to come, and the pause drew out so long he saw Jaskier’s expression fall to misery, which finally allowed him to say, “Had I met her first.”

“Had you—” Jaskier mindlessly repeated, and then his eyes grew round. “Oh.” He sat there saying nothing else for an agonizingly long time.

Geralt cocked his head to the side. He teased, “Are you speechless, bard?”

Jaskier opened his mouth, paused, and shut it. Then, in a very soft voice, he whispered, “But you can’t mean that.”

Geralt’s heart squeezed painfully. “Why not?” Had he proven himself untrustworthy? Unfaithful? Did Jaskier think so little of him?

But Jaskier shook his head, looking faintly lost. He asked, tremulous, “You love me?”

In answer, Geralt took the last step forward, and leaned down. He put his hands on the bed, bracketing Jaskier’s feet, and crawled. Jaskier’s chest moved frantically with shallow breaths as Geralt slithered up the length of his body. He’d been sitting up slightly, but as Geralt crested his waist, he reclined, as if in invitation. Their hips whispered against each other. Geralt dropped a kiss below his collar bone, soft hairs brushing his chin. Jaskier let out a shaky breath and Geralt felt it brush his hair. He raised his head, mere inches from Jaskier’s, and he stopped.

“Jaskier,” He breathed, then wet his lips. The words were there, simmering, choked beyond his throat. “I…” Jaskier deserved to hear it. He needed to say it. “I…” Damn it all. Why couldn’t he be normal?

A finger pressed lightly on his lips. “Hush, darling,” said Jaskier kindly, “You needn’t strain yourself on my account.”

Frustrated, Geralt shook his head, dislodging the gentle touch. “I want to tell you,” He explained. “I’ve never… it isn’t a part of our life, that word, I mean…” Feeling sheepish and silly, he finally croaked out, “Love.” 

Jaskier hummed, his brilliant eyes thoughtful. “May I say it to you, then?”

Geralt blinked; his eyes were burning again. Quietly, roughly, he grunted, “Yes.”

Jaskier smiled, warm and open and beautiful, as if with his whole being. “Geralt, I love you.”

He couldn’t recall anyone ever telling him that before.

There was nothing for it but to surge forward and kiss him. He kissed him hotly, spearing open his lips with his tongue, as he ground his cock down into Jaskier’s. Suddenly the bard’s body went taut and he let out a whimper. It didn’t seem like ecstasy. Geralt pulled back, brow drawn in worry.

“What’s wrong?”

“Ah,” Jaskier eeked out with a wince, “I’m afraid I’ve still got quite a few, er, bumps and bruises.”

Immediately Geralt got off of him, carefully rolling onto his side. The bard made a token protest at the loss of contact, but settled down quickly, showing Geralt just how serious the matter was. He regarded the man in profile silently for a moment, then asked, “What did they do to you?” Jaskier hadn’t volunteered much, and Geralt had been unwilling to push.

Jaskier turned his head so they were looking into each other’s eyes. “Oh, you know, they started off with beatings in the early days. I felt very tough spitting blood in their face, let me tell you.” His bravado was not cute. Geralt knew all too well what Jaskier looked like with blood dripping from his mouth. “Honestly, I could probably have withstood the punches and all, it was…” His eyes lost their shine. “They wouldn’t let me sleep. And I was fed naught but bread and water. I was starting to go mad. I babbled about anything that came to my head. And when they asked about Princess Cirilla…” Geralt tried to smooth his face into something nonthreatening. He hadn’t forgotten Jaskier’s _you’ll kill me_. “Well, I told them the reason I played her name day parties was because she was bound to you.”

Not bound, he thought briefly, but it wasn’t important. What was important… “Did they treat you better after that?”

“Not particularly,” Jaskier laughed bitterly, “But I did get to sleep while they discussed that little tidbit.”

“Then telling them might have saved your life,” Geralt reasoned. “Men will die without sleep just as surely as food. They knew what they were doing.” Grimly Jaskier dipped his chin in a subtle nod. Geralt glanced pointedly down the bed. “Did they…?”

“What?” He followed his gaze. “Oh, no they didn’t molest me, though one guard jested about doing so.” He declared that so brazenly, in contrast to his next, shy sort of statement. “Let’s just say I’m not feeling very sexy just yet.”

“Hm,” Geralt hummed in understanding. Jaskier watched him with round eyes.

“You don’t mind waiting?”

He could have laughed. In fact, there was no reason not to. He allowed himself to chuckle in the face of Jaskier’s self-consciousness.

“I’m used to waiting for you,” said Geralt with a smile, “What’s a little more?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song is My Love Will Never Die, also the inspiration for the title. The sonnet Jaskier plays for Geralt I wrote myself. IDK if it would hold up to rigorous dissection.
> 
> I am planning on writing a sexy epilogue later, but I haven't been motivated to write it yet, like Jaskier I haven't been feeling very sexy. So I decided to mark it complete, because the main story is done, any epilogue will come later, or not at all.
> 
> Thank you so much for being on this journey with me, whether you've been reading from the beginning or you just finished binging it.


End file.
